


Strangers

by Saphir



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Period Typical Attitudes, WW2 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-07-14 10:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7167413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saphir/pseuds/Saphir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two strangers meet in World War II, on the eve of D-Day.  They're too practical to look for anything in each other besides solace and comfort.  Does fate have other ideas?</p><p>28 October: Posted Chapters 9 and 10</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a historical AU, and I researched this, as best as I was able, but obviously there are gaps in my knowledge. In anyone sees any errors, please let me know so I can fix them!
> 
> Thanks to mrtl85 who was gracious enough to allow me to bounce ideas off of her!

There were three things soldiers wanted on liberty: alcohol, women, and a good time.

Any one of those three could easily cause trouble. And if there was one thing Sergeant Varric Tethras hated, it was waking up early on a Saturday, nursing a hangover, to find out that one (or several) of his men were in the brig.

So he sat in a dark corner, the only occupant of his small table, hunched over his warm, bitter beer. He was watching the kids. Someone had to.

His eyes flickered around the bar, nodding approvingly. His men were well on their way to being shit-faced, and had attracted quite a crowd of ladies. He snorted into his beer. Half of them had just come off the farm and had been no closer to a woman than the pin-ups in the barracks.  But that didn’t stop them from trying.

They were awkward as shit.

Still, it was pretty hard not to look good in a uniform. And…they had money. And cigarettes. And chocolate. And they were _here_ , unlike those poor British bastards who had already been fighting for three years.

He hoped his men had fun. This might be the last chance they would get for a while.

Or forever.

He winced at the unbidden thought, rolled it around in his mind with a sense of unease that he couldn’t entirely dismiss.

Something big was going down soon. The invasion. He heard the murmurings, could feel it in the air. After fifteen years in the army, he had developed something of a sixth sense.

He scrubbed a hand across his face, the stubble that had already grown there from this morning grazing his palm.. He’d thought about shaving again before he came out, but then figured why bother?

He reached into his shirt pocket for his Lucky Strikes, more out of force of habit then anything else. He tapped the pack against his fingers absent-mindedly, _one two three_ , as he always did before he got out a cigarette.

Then…

“You are sitting at my table,” an accented contralto announced from beside him, her annoyed tone interrupting his train of thought.

Varric looked up. And up.

Shit, the woman was all legs. Not from around here, either. She was beautiful, with almond eyes, tanned skin, hair rich and black and glossy, pulled back in a braid that circled her head.

Her uniform proclaimed her a nurse.

Maybe she was from one of the colonies? It was hard to tell, especially with the war going on.

Varric made a show of looking her up and down, then calmly took out a cigarette and lit it. He took a long draw, relaxing as he held it in his lungs, and then blew his smoke in her general direction.

“Tables ain’t got no names on ‘em, darlin’,” he drawled, exaggerating his Texas accent.

He knew it would annoy her. The angular lines of her body, her eyes that took him in at a glance, her sturdy, competent hands…they all proclaimed her a no-nonsense women, too impatient to have any time for the likes of him.

He saw her draw in a breath, her chest expanding impressively, no doubt about to give him a tongue-lashing that would do a battalion sergeant major proud, probably casting aspersions on Yanks in general and him in particular.

“Didn’t say we couldn’t share it, though,” he said, before she could speak, nudging the other chair at the small table out with his foot.

He liked a challenge. And unlike the fresh-faced peaches-and-cream misses gathered around the bar, this woman was intriguing.

He smiled winningly, the smile that had worked on women from three separate continents, and more states than he could count.

She frowned.

The woman made no move to sit down, a look of disgust replacing her previous exasperated expression.

“Ugh,” she said, lip curling.

But she hadn’t moved, either.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “I just didn’t want to get a crick in my neck talking to you. You’re kind of tall, you know?”

“I know.” There was a dangerous edge to her voice, as if she was challenging him to say something more about her her height.

He sighed dramatically. “Guess to be a gentleman, I’ll have to stand up.” He took a long drag on his cigarette, planted his hands on the table and pushed himself up and—got an eyeful of her chest.

He stared for half-a-second too long, and wrenched his eyes away before he could be slapped, then looked up at her.

She quirked a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him.

He was short. He knew it. Army said he was five feet, and that might’ve been a little generous. So he was used to it. But this woman was tall by anyone’s standard.

“This is no better,” he complained. He looked around mournfully. “I guess I could stand on my chair.”

The corners of her lips quirked. “I would like to see you do that.”

“Or...” he said, trying out his winning smile again, “You could take pity on me and have a seat.” He gestured to the opposite chair once more.

She sat, gracefully, then looked surprised at herself for doing so, brow furrowing in consternation.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, perhaps more to herself than him.

“What’s that? Have a good time?” He grinned.

He had meant it as a joke, but she nodded. “It has been a hard day.” Then her lips twisted. “A hard year.”

“You work at the hospital in town?”

She nodded again.

Varric winced, sobering.

A lot of the casualties were evacuated here to recover…or not. He had sometimes seen the patients, the better ones, out in town. A few soldiers with what they called million-dollar injuries: just bad enough to get evacuated, but nothing they would bear permanent injury from. A lot more with mangled and missing limbs, disfiguring burns, lost eyesight…unlucky SOBs in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He rubbed his forehead. The laughter and the shouts from the rest of the bar—pub—whatever they called it—washed over him, breaking over the table where they sat, threatening to pull him under and drown him.

He took another drag from his cigarette to soothe his jangled nerves.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked. He had thought it, not meant to say it. Everything was just too much all of a sudden. All of it. He needed some air.

But it came out wrong, and now she would assume—he winced. Now he _would_ get slapped.

Her eyes widened slightly, and he braced for the blow he knew was coming.

But something surprising happened. She looked at him, eyes searching his. He forced himself to meet her gaze, flushing under her scrutiny. A long silence passed between them.

“I didn't mean—” he started at the same time she looked at him and said, simply, “Yes.”

His jaw dropped.

But then, he nodded.

Something big was coming.

She had had a bad year.

Varric lifted his glass, and drained the remaining dark brew in one long gulp. He fished in his pockets for coins, trying to work out the shillings and pence, then muttered, “Screw it,” under his breath and left all the change in his pockets on the table.

“Come on,” the woman said, rising to her feet, and grasping his hand.

 

* * *

 

  
It wasn’t romantic.

It was desperate—hands fumbling for each others’ clothes, lips frantic on each other in the stillness, small noises that hurried them on, fingertips that searched for ways of forgetting the past, and the future.

He tried to slow down. For her, and the tickle in the back of his mind that registered gasps of surprise intermingled with pleasure, passion with shyness, and awkward, untutored touches that still set his skin on fire.

But every time he drew back and would take his time, her hands, her lips, her thighs all urged him on, and damn, it had been too long.

She was ready for him, and when they came together, it was in a frenzy of barely-controlled lust that took his breath away. He was frantic and ungentle, chasing forgetfulness in her body. The bed moved in increasingly desperate groans with them until it was too much, and he spilled himself in her like a green schoolboy, collapsing on her in a puddle of hot, sticky sweat, chest heaving, completely sated.

He came back to himself only slowly. She held him even now, her body still yielding to him, her arms wrapped around him tightly, hands cradling the back of his head, twining in his hair.

He stirred, and she released him as he pulled himself out of her with a groan and shifted to the side, removing his weight from her. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No.”

“Good.” He exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and trailed his fingers down her body, intent on bringing her to the pleasure he knew she hadn't had in his eagerness.

He had just ghosted his fingers over her swollen flesh when she pushed his hand away. “You don't need to try,” she said.

He was surprised. “Darlin’, I just want to give you—“

“I’m fine,” she repeated more firmly.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Just…” Her voice trailed off. “Just hold me, please.” The voice was soft, pleading, and not what he expected.

“Of course,” he said, slipping his arm around her, and wondering what sadness troubled her, but too much of a stranger to know, or to ask.

So he held her, in the narrow bed that was barely big enough for the two of them, leaning back against the hard headboard as he waited in the silence for the sweat to cool from his body.

As his breathing evened out, he fumbled on the night table for a cigarette and handed one to her before getting one for himself. He lit them, the orange-red embers glowing in the room, tiny pinpricks of light in the darkness.

Just his light, and hers, and the smell of smoke.

She idly rubbed circles with her fingernail onto his chest, tickling the hair there.

“I’m Varric,” he said finally. They should know each other’s names, if nothing else.

“Cassandra,” she returned.

Cassandra. It wasn’t a pretty name, or a common one, but…Cassandra. It was a name well-suited to the tall, stately woman with the hidden sense of humor she kept locked behind her dark, unreadable eyes.

He thought about asking her a number of things. Where she was from, what she did at the hospital, if she had someone…before. Before all this.

But in the end, he didn’t. She was here now, and that was enough for today.

He buried his nose in her hair and smelled lilacs, and squeezed her closer to him.

 

* * *

 

  
He woke up early the next morning, and gathered his scattered clothing from the floor in the semi-darkness.

He knotted his tie, and lifted the blackout curtain just enough to peer out the window. A fine, misty rain was falling, just hard enough to well and truly soak his wool uniform before he made it back to the barracks.

He thought of Texas and the long, hot summers, and the sun and the mesquite trees, and not for the first time, missed home.

He sighed, and adjusted his tie for the final time, before picking his garrison cap up. He turned back to look at the bed, and saw amber eyes following him across the room.

“I gotta go, darlin’,” he said, retreating into his drawl.

She nodded, and he stood there awkwardly for a minute, before turning to the door.  
But he had only taken a few steps before he turned around again.

“Cassandra, I—I would like to see you again. If you would too, I mean.” His voice cracked, and he wondered why he was so nervous.

He didn’t usually do this, that was true. Romantic entanglements weren’t his thing—not that his infrequent lovers had anything to complaint about. He never made promises, and the women he was with didn’t want them. Usually, he’d leave without looking back. But there was something about her—something about Cassandra—that he wanted to get to know better. The prospect of leaving and never seeing her again struck him not with relief, but with regret.

There was a long pause as she looked at him, then sat up, pulling the covers around her. She hadn’t taken her hair down last night, and now some of it fell in soft tendrils around her face and down her neck. Just above the blankets, on her chest, hovered the small pink marks that told of yesterday evening.

She looked like nothing so much as a ravished Madonna.

“Varric,” she said carefully, as if tasting something unpleasant on her tongue.

His heart dropped.

She looked him in the eye, with the hauteur of a marble statue, and said, her words chipped from ice, “The events of last night notwithstanding, I have no intention of being at your… _disposal_ …while you are here.”

_Shit_. That wasn’t what he meant at all. He scrambled, looking for the right words. “No,” he said emphatically, his voice over-loud in the small room. He winced. “ _No_ ,” he said again, moderating his voice, “Just seeing you. Not like this—I mean—just _you_. Talking, dancing, whatever you’d like. I’d like to get to know you. For however long we have.”

Her face did soften a fraction at that, though it didn’t thaw completely. “Thank you, Mr.—“ and then she broke off, frowning slightly when she realized she didn’t know his last name.

“Thank you, Varric,” she said. “But I think we both know last night was a mistake. I do not do... these types of things,” she said, picking her words carefully. She paused, clutching the bedsheets tighter to her chest, a flicker of realization in her eyes. “You have no way of knowing that, of course,” she said wryly. “But I do not.”

The corner of his lip quirked up. Cassandra had a sense of humor, as he had suspected last night. It was a droll thing, quick to point out absurdities, against herself or others.

It was a rare quality, and one he admired.

“I know you’re not going take my word for it, ma’am,” he said, retreating to formality to put her more at ease, “but it’s not really something I do, either. Kinda unusual times we’re living in, though.”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft. “It is. But still—it was a mistake. Something I truly regret. It would be easier,” she swallowed, “if we didn’t see each other again.”

He felt a sting. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but he closed his eyes against it for a second, for the flicker of pain that it brought with it.

“If that’s what you want,” he said dully.

“Yes. That would be for the best, I think.”

He would have tried once more if he had heard a note of sadness, or uncertainty, or anything, really. Anything except for the calm consideration she dismissed him with.

And he was dismissed, no doubt about it. Whatever he saw in her, she didn’t see in him.

He bowed his head, jammed his garrison cap on, walked out the door, and presumably, out of her life.


	2. Chapter 2

Varric’s suspicion _was_ correct. He was thoroughly drenched by the time the barracks were in sight.

He was looking forward to nothing so much as getting inside, changing into some dry clothes, and maybe getting some shut-eye in his rack. Everyone was probably sleeping off a hangover, so the barracks would be quiet for some time yet.

His socks squished uncomfortably in his dress shoes as he increased his pace, and the rain dripped off his cap and into his eyes. He cursed the weather for the fiftieth time since he had left Cassandra’s. Did it ever do anything besides rain in England? Theoretically, he supposed it must, but when he fixed his mind to it, he couldn't recall anything besides rain or clouds that threatened rain. Well, to be fair, it had snowed once. Which was technically different from rain, but…not really.

He wondered if Cassandra liked the snow or the rain—not that it mattered anymore. She emphatically didn't want to see him again. But why did that have to stop him from speculating? It was just a way to pass the time. Or at least that excuse seemed reasonable.

It was his suspicion that she did. She had eyes that didn't seem to see things the way others did. He was used to people who looked at him and saw a short, stocky, ugly redhead; who heard his drawl and dismissed him as stupid; who found out he was an enlisted army lifer and assumed he was poor, perhaps even a former vagrant or criminal. But Cassandra’s eyes said _Who_ _are_ _you_? and looked for something else. He wasn't sure if—

“Sergeant Tethras!”

Varric recognized that cheerful, over-jolly tone that had interrupted his thoughts and sighed. Lieutenant Hawke only sounded like that when there was bad news. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like was about to happen—and on a day when he had could have used some time to feel sorry for himself. Cassandra was the first woman he had been truly captivated by since…well, since Bianca. And that was a long time ago.

A long-suffering sigh escaped his lips, and Varric turned and waited with ill-humor for Hawke to catch up.

The lieutenant was new to the platoon, having just graduated college and officer candidates’ school. Varric had rolled his eyes when he heard a new lieutenant was coming, and planned on having to baby-sit him until he learned his ass from a hole in the ground. (Which took some second lieutenants longer than others.)

Though Varric always give his superior officers the respect they rated in public, and always followed orders, second lieutenants could be a trying bunch. They were just smart enough to think they knew what they were doing, and just stupid enough to get the platoon in real trouble. It left sergeants like him tactfully educating the young officers until they finally learned enough to be good leaders—whereupon they would be promoted and the process would start over.

To his surprise, though, Varric rather liked Lieutenant Hawke. He was smart and conscientious, and what he didn’t know, he was determined to learn as quickly as possible. Varric knew personally that the lieutenant would stay up late studying tactics, then wake up early the next morning and spend half the day talking with weapons squad about machine gun emplacements, or the mortar men the effective ranges for the 60 mm shells, or any number of things.

The work-ethic alone would have earned Varric’s grudging respect, but there was one thing that truly put Varric’s mind at ease: Hawke was a fellow Texan. And everyone (or at least Varric) knew that Texans were the greatest people on God’s earth. Texas might be an unforgiving, harsh place, liable to bake you in the summer and freeze you in the winter, with a wind that constantly threatened to blow you out off your feet, sweeping down dry, flat grasslands dotted with cattle, mesquite, and little else, but if there was one thing Texas did, it was produce people who were tough as old boots and too stubborn (or stupid) to know when to give up. The weather and the land were constantly trying to kill them, and Texans constantly laughed in their face.

Texans were the sort of men you liked having by your side in a fight, and Hawke was no exception.

Varric’s relatively high opinion of Hawke, however, didn’t get in the way of his giving the lieutenant a hard time in private.

“What is it this time?” Varric asked as Hawke drew close. There may have been a hint of exasperation in his voice.

“I just got back from talking with the XO. And he’s decided to give us a tremendous opportunity.” Hawke grinned at Varric.

Now Varric knew he wasn't going to like what he heard. The XO never passed along good news. Varric groaned, but played along. “Don’t tell me. Bonuses for all of us? He’s reassigned our platoon to tour with the USO?”

“Even better! We’re all invading England again. Tonight.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Varric massaged his forehead, trying to ward off the headache he knew was coming. In theory, practicing a sea-to-land assault was a good thing. It got the men used to the Higgins boats, moving forward under fire, and working as a team. The bad part was, they always ended up going to some godforsaken part of England that was nigh-uninhabitable. The last time they went on this exercise, Varric had to take his helmet off every time he wanted to sit on something dry, because there was water up to his ankles.

“I’ll let the men know to get ready…and to pack extra socks,” Varric added as an afterthought, when he recalled the cases of trench foot the platoon had contracted last time. “Gone for about two weeks, sir?”

“Same as last time,” Hawke nodded. “Have the men mustered here at 1600.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hawke nodded, then changed the subject. “Have a good time out in town last night, Sergeant?” he asked innocently.

Varric adopted a bland expression. “It was fine, sir. Had a drink, watched out for the kids. Came back to the barracks and hit the rack pretty early.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays? Hitting the rack?” Hawke’s smile grew even wider.

Varric schooled his expression even blander, if possible. He thought of oatmeal, rice pudding, and boiled potatoes. Certainly not soft lips, a husky voice, smooth skin, and glossy black hair, or a woman who asked him to hold her. Certainly not a woman who could express humor or care or disappointment with as little as a raised eyebrow or a quirk of the lip. And definitely not a woman he wished he could get to know better, but who rejected him this morning.

Oatmeal. Rice pudding. Boiled potatoes.

Varric took a deep breath.

“Sir?” He imbued the word with as much confusion as possible, and looked at his commander as if he had just announced General Eisenhower was a German spy.

“Nice try, Sergeant. But I was looking for you last night. We needed an extra for cards.”

Varric decided the only way out was through. Besides, he wasn’t the sort to kiss and tell.

“I don’t know where you looked, sir, but I was in my rack all night. Maybe you need to get more sleep. Or perhaps you need some leave; come out to town once in a while. The stress may be getting to you.” Varric let his voice ooze a touch of concern.

“Could be,” Hawke agreed, shooting Varric a penetrating look that implied he wasn't buying it for a minute, but decided to let it slide. “To be honest with you, I’ve thought about going out on pass, Sergeant. But I decided against it. I couldn’t, in good conscience, release my stunning looks on the English countryside.”

Varric snorted. Humility certainly wasn't one of Hawke’s strengths. Neither, apparently, was a firm grip on reality.

The lieutenant was tall and slender, with dark hair and boyish features. He looked like almost any other lieutenant, really. There was only one problem, and it was simple. It was also in the middle of his face.

The lieutenant unconsciously stroked his mustache, his pride and joy. He had grown it out proudly since they’d gotten to England. In Varric’s estimation, it looked like an aggressive caterpillar struggling to devour his lip.

Varric could have let it pass as youthful stupidity. He could have. But he didn’t. Where would be the fun in that?

“Yes, sir. You’re right; the English people have already suffered enough.”

Hawke grinned at Varric with good-humor and replied, “Varric, I’ve told you. Don’t be jealous of my mustache. It’s unbecoming.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “Lieutenant, the only way I’d be jealous of that mustache is if I desperately needed a boot brush.”

“I haven't heard the ladies complaining.” Hawke waggled his eyebrows significantly.

“Sir, that’s because your mother loves you very much, and doesn’t care what you look like.”

Hawke gave a sound that was suspiciously similar to a choking laugh, quickly stifled by a cough. He then clapped Varric on the shoulder. “We’ll settle this when we get back, Sergeant.”

Varric figured he’d let it end on that note, whatever the lieutenant meant. He had work to do. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“And sergeant?”

“Yes?”

“Get inside and dry off. It looks like you had a long walk this morning.” Hawke cleared his throat. “From the, ah—barracks, where you were sleeping soundly all last night, of course.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Varric hid his smile and retreated to the relative safety of the barracks.

He was going to have his work cut out for him, making sure everyone was ready to muster at 1600. The only good thing was he wouldn’t have much time to think about Cassandra.

 

* * *

 

  
She heard the door close, announcing he had left, but the heat and scent of him still lingered on her pillow and in the thin sheets tangled around her body.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and lay back on the bed, allowing herself the luxury of imagining he was still here, that she was in his embrace, reveling in the comfort and reassurance she felt in his arms.

He was…unexpected. Though she wasn't quite sure what she had expected. She supposed it was a decent man who could help blot out the sadness and regret she felt, if only for evening, and then in the morning they would go their separate ways without looking back.

He had taken her by surprise with his request. She had thought—in the few seconds she spared to think of it at all—that she would never see him again. That would have been fine. She was not getting involved with anyone again; she had promised herself that.

But oh, it was tempting, so tempting, as he stood there wringing his poor, abused cap, as he asked to see her again, to take her out, to get know her. He was handsome. And funny. And so very kind. That was what she hadn't expected.

But perhaps that was a lie. She had seen, or suspected, these things when she met him in the pub. What surprised her was that a large, almost overwhelming portion of her wanted to throw caution to the wind, to ask him to wrap his arms around her once more to say _Yes, yes, of course. Take me out and let's smile and dance. Make me laugh, as I know you could. We’re young and have all the time in the world_.

But they weren’t, and didn't, and that was that.

Yes, it was a mistake, coming home with the American. And it wouldn’t ever be repeated. She had been tired and hurting and vulnerable, and he had somehow slipped past her carefully built defenses, with his rakish grin and his green eyes that brimmed with hidden humor and gladness, as though the world were a happy joke to be shared just with her.

No, it wouldn’t ever be repeated.

She groaned as she got out of bed, legs sore and protesting, and an ache between her thighs that was not-quite-pain. Her cheeks flamed as she wondered how she could be so wanton, and her eyes fluttered closed again as she remembered—

But no. She would get over it. She must. She had a job to do, people relying on her, appearances to maintain.

Her back straightened of its own accord, and she squared her shoulders, ready to do battle with the day and anything in it, and put thoughts of last night behind her. She marched over to her pitcher, grabbed a cloth that she moistened with cold water, and began to scrub her skin, thoroughly removing any traces of yesterday.

But though she scrubbed until her skin chafed, memories and regrets still pulled and tugged on her mind, too stubborn to be erased so easily.

It was only when she had given up and began to put her uniform, and her eyes rested on the picture on top of her bureau, that she realized her first thought this morning hadn’t been of _him_ , but of Varric.

She reached up and touched the cool glass that his photo rested behind, remembering the tall, sandy-haired man in his blue-grey uniform, grinning at the camera, who had gone from her and never came back. She still remembered the day of the picture, and how dashing he had looked—had always looked—in his uniform.

_Oh Galyan, I love you. I'm sorry, I'm sorry._

Silent tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Her grief, now tinged with the additional bite of guilt, came to her again, a familiar weight, _her_ weight. She welcomed it, and allowed it her usual place on her shoulders, and in her heart.

It washed everything else away. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The quickest way to forget was to give yourself no time to remember, as Cassandra had discovered over the years. The key was constant work, constant activity that would leave you with no time to think, until one day, painful and unpleasant memories would dull to a persistent ache instead of a gaping wound. And, at least in nursing, there was always one more thing to do, one more patient to help, one more colleague to assist until day blended into exhausting day, and sleep was only snatched in reluctant intervals when the body refused to go on.

Not that anyone could accuse Cassandra of shirking before, but in the weeks since—since Varric—Cassandra had redoubled her efforts. The moment of weakness had only happened because she had given herself too much time to think.

She started eschewing her bi-weekly indulgence of a drink at the pub—partly to work more, and partly, she admitted, because she didn’t want to see the handsome American again. She had told him it was a mistake, and it meant nothing, but she didn’t want to go there and see his eyes sliding over her like she had never existed, see his smiling face go blank when he looked in her direction.

 _It doesn’t have to be that way_ , her traitorous mind reminded her. _He wanted to see you again. Maybe it would be nice to talk. Or even to dance--it's been awhile. There’s no harm in that._

Cassandra pushed such thoughts down sternly. There was plenty of harm there. Wartime romance was a boat being tossed about in a storm, the winds pulling it apart in every direction, danger lurking all around, and no safe harbor in sight.

_Galyan, oh, Galyan._

What was the best case scenario? She would grow to care for Varric, only to watch him leave, and be heartsick with worry? If he was lucky and came through the war unscathed, he would go back to America and..what? It would lead nowhere.

And that was the best case scenario. The worst was—well, she had lived through it once, and more than part of her heart had went with him.

 _Never again_ , she vowed for the hundredth time, carefully reinforcing the wall around her heart. _Never_.

Leliana noticed her change in behavior—Leliana noticed everything, it seemed—but it was part of their unusual friendship that Leliana always knew when to press—and when not to. They worked side by side, as they always did, and Leliana kept inviting her out, but never said a word at Cassandra’s constant demurrals, just kept asking as she always did. A good friend was a treasure, and if there was one thing that Cassandra was glad about the war—and there were very, very few—one of them was meeting Leliana.

She walked into the hospital one morning, after grabbing a few hours sleep and shoveling an increasingly disgusting breakfast into her mouth—Cassandra swore the hard brown bread became worse and worse as the war went on, and the margarine had gone from bad to indescribable. But she wasn’t eating for pleasure, but for nutrition, so she had gobbled it down as quickly as possible, despite the protests of her roiling stomach.

Cassandra had a feeling it was going to be one of those days when she stepped into the hospital and the stench of bleach nearly overwhelmed her. It burned her nose, and it seemed like the acrid scent travelled directly to her stomach, sending her meager breakfast lurching again.

The new aides seemed to be of the opinion that if a little bleach was good, a lot was better. To be fair, most of them were quite young, and eager to learn, but still. This wasn't a lack of experience, it was a lack of common sense.

Cassandra rolled her eyes, and then made the mistake of sniffing again. Her eyes began to water and she gagged, keeping her food down with only the most valiant of efforts.

It wouldn't do to have a senior nurse vomiting in the hallway.

Cassandra made a mental note to track down the culprit later herself, if the matron hadn’t done so already. She smiled grimly. As blunt as Cassandra herself was, in comparison to the matron, she was the epitome of kindness and tact. The matron had no tolerance for the foolish or the lazy, and her tirades were stuff of legend. Her cutting remarks routinely left nurses in tears, aides a blubbering mess, and even the doctors didn’t argue with her.

To be honest, though Cassandra didn’t like her, she respected her. This was the best-run hospital she had ever worked at, despite the nursing shortages, despite the wartime privations.

Only one thing marred her contentment, and it was the matron’s refusal to recommend her for service abroad, close to the soldiers. They needed nurses willing to risk danger, and Cassandra was willing—more than willing. She longed to be of more service than she was here, to leave everything behind and start over, not to mention the pleasant thought of having more autonomy—but all the Matron had said was that she’d think about it, and the orders never came.

So she was appointed the sister in charge of the operating room—an important job, to be sure—and all that was left to do was to resign herself to God’s will. If indeed it was God’s will, and not, as Cassandra sometimes thought sacrilegiously, the matron’s.

She sighed as she walked down the hallway to the stairs, taking the steps down to the basement. The operating rooms had been upstairs, but during the height of the air raids, they had been moved.

She had just gotten to the bottom and reached for the door when it swung open from the other side.

“Sister, I was looking for you.”

Cassandra nearly collided with the matron as she burst through the door, and was only able to avoid it by some quick side-stepping.

“We have three men coming in shortly, an emergency, farm accident of some sort. They’re from the country and we’ll take them; anywhere else is too far. I wasn’t able to get all the details, but they’re critical. You’ll have to see to the staffing, and push the other cases back.”

“Yes, matron. I’ll see to it.” Cassandra groaned in her head. Three emergencies potentially requiring the operating rooms immediately? _Three_? Did the matron have any idea how difficult that would be to handle?

From the gleam in the matron’s blue eyes, Cassandra had a feeling that she did, and found the predicament rather amusing.

“Let me know if you need any assistance, of course.” It was said in a tone that left the listener in no doubt that assistance would not, in any case, be encouraged, and would be seen as a sign of incompetence.

The heavily starched cap on the matron’s silver-blonde head bobbed as she critically studied Cassandra up and down. “And for heaven’s sake, sister, take care of yourself. You look awful.”

This pronouncement made, Matron Meredith Stannard sailed away in a cloud of efficiency, leaving Cassandra in her wake with the start of what she hoped didn’t turn into a migraine.

She grit her teeth as she swung the door open to the OR. Thus far, she had almost been sick, would have to rearrange the entire day’s schedule (no doubt with much wailing and gnashing of teeth), and, to put a little cherry on top of her sundae of misery , she apparently looked awful.

How much worse could the day get?

 

* * *

 

  
“All right,” Hawke said. “Here’s the deal.”

 _Lili Marlene_ was playing in the background, just discernable over the din of the conversations and laughter in the pub. It was not one of Varric’s favorites. The cloying sultriness of the singer’s voice made the song saccharine instead of touching. Or it usually did, anyway.

But somehow, the melancholy of partings seemed oddly appropriate tonight.

He had dragged the lieutenant out to unwind. She hadn't been in here in weeks, and he had finally stopped looking for her, figuring she had stopped coming on account of him. But tonight, she was here, and he had only half-followed the train of Hawke’s conversation, because his eyes kept slipping to the woman across the room. He could only see her back, and the braided coronet of her hair, but he would know that back from a million other such backs. She sat with such…uprightness…as if to relax her spine would be succumbing to a temptation not to be borne.

He couldn’t see her face, but he could imagine it. Angular, even harsh, but a smile would bring an answering warmth and humor to her eyes and a gentle upturn to her lips, almost against her will, but it was a battle he’d fight over and over again just to see her smile-lines betray her.

He wondered if other people noticed that, the way he did, or if they thought her too cold or too serious. But he knew she could melt with the gentlest of caresses, how the lightest touch traced down her neck made her shiver, how his lips made her catch her breath, how his tongue made her moan—

“Sergeant!” Hawke was nearly shouting. “Did you listen to a word I said?”

“No,” Varric admitted, guiltily. “I was just…” his mind raced furiously for an excuse, “I was just watching that shot.” He nodded to the pool table in the back corner. “Off the rail twice before it went in the pocket. Guy can play. Saw him lose twice since we’ve been here—badly. Now I think they’re doing double or nothing and the guy’s making shots like a pro. Gotta watch the hustling. It’ll start fights quicker than anything.”

Varric finished his speech, marveling at his own capacity for bullshit.

“That was good,” Hawke said, nodding slowly. “Very good. In fact, if I hadn’t seen you keep looking at that table in the corner, I might believe you.”

Varric figured there was no point in elaborating or issuing a denial. Instead, he shrugged. “Believe what you want to believe, lieutenant.” He forced a grin on his face.

“At any rate,” Hawke told him, issuing him a sharp look, “It’s what I tried to say earlier. She’s the most beautiful woman in the room. And we’ll settle this once and for all. I ask her to dance, she says yes, I win. You apologize on my mustache’s behalf. She refuses, I shave it off.”

Varric choked on the sip of beer he had just taken. Coughing slightly, he wondered how to phrase what he wanted to say. “No,” and “Hell no!” were obvious non-starters. Was, “Stay away from her if you know what’s good for you,” too much?

It was.

Maybe a joking, “Don’t set your sights too high, lieutenant?” That might work. Then again, it might not, and—

“Wish me luck!” Hawke stood up and straightened his tie before marching across the room.

What the hell was the kid doing? He was obviously too young for her. Obviously.

Varric tightened his grip on his glass, and watched Hawke wend his way through the crowded tables to where she was sitting. Mustache aside, the lieutenant looked…commanding. Handsome.

Varric’s throat felt unaccountably tight for some reason. He ran a finger under his collar, tugging vainly on it to try and get more air.

Cassandra was nothing to him, anyway. What did it matter if she chose to go out with his best friend? She and he had had their fun, and it was over. He had nothing to be jealous about.

He tugged again and wondered if he was choking. It certainly felt like it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to mrtl85, who is a great encouragement.

“Don’t turn around,” Leliana said, pitching her voice just loud enough to hear over the din of the pub, her smile impish as she looked at Cassandra. “But one of the Americans keeps staring at you. I think he’s interested.”

“Let him be interested,” Cassandra said sourly, grabbing her drink and draining the last third before plunking it down, empty, on the table.

She knew her manners were vulgar, and she was being outrageous, but somehow, she couldn’t find it in herself to care. Perhaps even a small part of her was enjoying it. Leliana had almost had to drag her here; she had heard about the chaos in the operating room and came to see her at shift’s end, whereupon after one look, she proclaimed Cassandra was coming with her, whether she wanted to or not. Cassandra had finally capitulated only because it was the path of least resistance. And perhaps because, she admitted reluctantly to herself, Leliana cared, and was trying to help, and that was important.

But she had badly regretted her decision as soon as she stepped into the loud, smoky pub. It was busy, stuffed with Americans and locals, a few of whom were quietly enjoying their drinks, but the majority of whom were apparently trying to deafen her, with their loud, boisterous conversations and their raucous laughter—not to mention the heavy, hazy smoke that clung and choked, making her feel sick and light-headed.

Leliana shot her a look, the kind that said Cassandra was being impossible. Cassandra had been the recipient of that look from her friend more than once, but it was usually accompanied by a fond smile. This time, it was accompanied by a slight frown and a line between Leliana's eyes that spoke of frustration.

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said, raising her hands in capitulation. She reached for the easiest excuse that came to mind, which wasn’t precisely an excuse, but far from the whole truth. “I just see all these men, and they are leaving soon, and it reminds me….” Her voice trailed off, and she blinked against the sudden stinging in her eyes. Half-excuse or not, the pain was still there, the wounds still ached.

“Oh,” Leliana breathed, stretching her hand across the table, and giving Cassandra’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Forgive me for not realizing. I know this has been…difficult. More than difficult.” Her eyes probed Cassandra’s, until Cassandra looked away, uncomfortable. Leliana would listen if she wanted to talk, but Cassandra did not. Talking wouldn’t change anything.

“Yes, well…” Cassandra murmured, attempting to grab at her equilibrium, which was threatening to desert her. She tried to force a slight smile on her face, though she had the feeling it ended up being more of a grimace. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“Of course,” Leliana said over-brightly. There was a pause as she apparently searched for a topic. “Did I tell you I have heard from one of my friends in my old town recently?”

“No,” Cassandra said, interested. She was glad for Leliana, of course. She knew she worried horribly for those she had left behind. But Leliana’s friends were also a source of amusing gossip, which Leliana always expertly shared. Sometimes Cassandra felt Leliana had missed her calling. Not that she was a bad nurse, but she should’ve been a story-teller, maybe even an actress. She had the gift of making her audience feel as though they were there, sharing in whatever experience she was relaying. Cassandra herself was an expert at explaining facts, clearly and concisely, but couldn’t captivate her audience even if she wanted to. In truth, as a former acquaintance had said, Cassandra could make even an interesting story sound boring.

“Well,” Leliana said, clearly warming to her subject, “when the Germans came, they took over the town hall and placed their flag on the top of the building. Standard, of course.”

“Of course,” Cassandra agreed.

“Obviously everyone was very upset. The hall was built in the reign of Louis XIV and is quite beautiful. During the Revolution, there was a standoff between the citizens and the government officials barricaded inside. Napoleon used it as a headquarters, briefly, while he was traveling. It was made into a temporary hospital during the Great War,” Leliana paused, measuring Cassandra’s reaction. “It was not just…a building. It was our history. _Us_.”

“I can understand that.”

“Well…everyone was upset, but what could be done? So they tolerated what could not be changed, and that was that, or so everyone thought. But someone had finally had enough.” Leliana grinned. “They climbed up during the night and replaced the German flag with the tricolor. The building is made of brick, and has handholds, but it would not be easy! Imagine dangling in the air, and knowing that if you fell, it would be to your death, and trying to hang on. Of course, you could not be seen, and you must be quiet.”

“Impressive,” Cassandra conceded, interested in spite of herself.

“But there is more! This mystery man stretched barbed wire all around the flag so the Germans could not take it down. So in the morning, the Germans saw it, but nobody knew what to do. They were all standing on the ground, looking up at the flag, pointing, yelling. But as you can imagine,” Leliana laughed at this point, “no one volunteered to climb up.”

“So what did they do?” Cassandra asked, smiling.

“Quite a crowd had formed by then. Everyone was looking to see what the Germans would do next, and they were laughing behind their hands. Not too loudly, of course, but the Germans knew they looked like fools. So one of them had the idea that if they could not climb up to get the tricolor, perhaps they would be able to shoot it off. With a machine gun.”

“I don’t imagine that ended well,” Cassandra said.

“Not for the Germans, no.” Leliana’s eyes sparkled. “Then—“

“ _Oh_ ,” Leliana said in a different tone altogether, her eyes fixed on a point over Cassandra’s head.

“Oh, what?” Cassandra asked, concerned.

“The man who was looking at you—“

“Yes?” Cassandra said, groaning internally, having a feeling she knew where this was going.

“Well, there was another man at the table. And I saw him looking, but he was so _young_. But now he is coming over, I think to talk to me.”

“Send him away, then, if you aren't interested,” Cassandra said, unconcerned.

“I will, it is just I dislike—“ Leliana broke off as the young man came up to their table.

Cassandra surveyed him surreptitiously. He was young, true, but more than slightly dashing in his uniform. He was tall and slender, with black hair not unlike Cassandra’s own color, and a large mustache that had rather gone out of style now, but reminded Cassandra of the men when she was young.  The entire effect was...not displeasing.

“Ladies,” he said, and while Cassandra expected his voice to betray some nervousness, it didn’t. It wasn’t arrogant, either. More…self-assured.

Cassandra’s opinion of him went up. If she were ten years younger, she’d be jealous of Leliana. Of course, she wasn’t, but Cassandra hoped Leliana would let him down without being too hard on the boy.

“I apologize for my rudeness in interrupting, but I find I need your help. Quite desperately, in fact.”

He looked at Leliana and smiled, hopeful, with a slight touch of boyish humor in his eyes.

“I don’t know what I could possibly do for you—”

“Lieutenant Garret Hawke. But most people just call me Hawke.”

“Thank you, _lieutenant_ ,” Leliana said, looking belatedly at his shoulder bars. “But my friend and I,” she gestured toward Cassandra, “were just having a private conversation.” Leliana’s voice wasn’t quite frosty, but it didn’t brook any disagreement either. Cassandra expected the young man to mumble an apology and return to his seat.

Instead, if possible, he smiled even more. “I can see that, ma’am. But, my buddy over there,” he indicated a place behind Cassandra with his head, “told me I couldn’t possibly get a dance from one of the two prettiest women in the room.”

Cassandra was sure that last bit was added entirely for her benefit. She was old enough now to be honest about herself. She wasn’t an ugly woman, true, but men would never call her pretty, either. Striking, perhaps. But she was too tall, too harsh, too…masculine, perhaps, to ever be told she was pretty. Still, the young man was polite. She’d give him that. It was not uncommon in her younger years for her to be talking to a friend, and have a gentleman come over and ignore her completely.

Leliana, on the other hand, was the kind of woman that men made fools of themselves over. A petite red-head with a slim figure and striking blue eyes? She was a virtual magnet for the flood of American servicemen stationed here. Cassandra imagined it got very annoying, very quickly. She wouldn't know.

“Tell your friend he is right,” Leliana said coolly.

Hawke looked hurt. “Ma’am, I hope you don't mean that. You see, it’s not me I'm concerned about. It's like this: my friend already has a big enough head as it is. If he finds out he's right about this, I can't imagine how big his head will get, but I suspect the Germans will be able to see it a half-mile away. Target practice, you know?” Hawke shook his head solemnly. “It'd be a heckuva think to have on my conscience.”

He looked so forlorn that Leliana laughed, and even Cassandra couldn't hide her smile. Hawke's voice tugged at her, reminding Cassandra of something, though she was quite certain she hadn't met him before.

“Well, I wouldn't want to let that happen,” Leliana conceded. “But I couldn't possibly dance with you and leave my friend alone. I'm sure you understand.”

Cassandra wasn't entirely sure what to say. Was Leliana making an excuse, or did she actually want to dance with the young man? She finally decided on the latter, and was about to say, “Go ahead, Leliana,” when Hawke began to speak first.

“But that's not a problem!” Hawke exclaimed. “My friend, Varric, would love to dance with you,” he said, addressing himself to Cassandra. “I'll be right back.”

And before she could say a word, he strode away.

Cassandra felt the room start to fade and spin. Not that Varric. Surely. It can't be. Her mind finally clicked a piece of the puzzle into place. She had never seen or heard Hawke before, but the twang of his accent—it was like Varric’s.

Her stomach dropped.

Of course it was that Varric. How many people are named Varric, anyway?

Had he arranged this? After she told him she never wanted to see him? After she had counted on not seeing him? After he had promised, and she had contented herself with the memory of a pleasant one-time mistake?

She felt the fury rise in her, and she let it, let it destroy her nervousness, her fear, her trepidation. Of course he arranged it.

 _How_ _dare_ _he_.

 

* * *

 

 

  
“You what?” Varric said.

“I told her you would dance with her friend,” Hawke said, clearly impatient with Varric’s hesitation in the matter. “Come on. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

Events had seemed to spin out of Varric’s control. He had gone from admiring Cassandra from a distance to being asked to dance with her in a blink of an eye. He wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but he had a feeling it was not something that would end well. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think—“

“Tethras,” Hawke said, “don’t do this. She wants to dance. With me. Just _come_ _on_.” The last bit was hissed and punctuated by Hawke emphatically slamming his hand down on the table, making their glasses jump.

A sudden though seemed to strike Hawke, and he glared at Varric, lowering his head to look him in the eye. “The only reason you’re doing this is because of that damn bet. Forget the bet. This woman is gorgeous. I just need you to dance with the other one. Don’t let me down.”

A dozen thoughts, a dozen excuses, ran through Varric’s head, only to get snarled somewhere between his brain and his mouth, the most cogent of which was an incredulous _You don’t think Cassandra is the most beautiful woman in this room_? And that, Varric knew, was the furthest thing from helpful.

“Please?” Hawke asked, a hint of pleading in his voice. “I’ll owe you one.” He looked at Varric hopefully.

Varric sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Sure. I’ll probably regret it, but sure.” He could never resist helping his friends. Even if it meant his certain death, or whatever else Cassandra planned for him when she saw him at her table.

Hawke didn’t notice, or didn’t care, about Varric’s odd choice of words, and a smile curled on his lips. “Thanks.”

The lieutenant waited patiently on him as he slowly got up from the table, pausing to straighten his jacket and tie, to run a hand over his hair. If he was walking toward his own execution, and it seemed likely he was about to, there was no reason he couldn’t look good on the way.

But maybe—the thought struck him as he slowly followed Hawke—Cassandra had softened her stance. After all, if she was that vehemently opposed to seeing him again, no doubt she would have said so to Hawke. He and Cassandra could dance and have a friendly chat at the table with the other couple. There was no reason they couldn't act like adults, and have a bit of fun in the process, was there?

And if he felt his mood lift at the thought of spending the evening with her, well, that was perfectly natural. Spending time with a beautiful woman instead of just drinking with Hawke? He knew which one he vastly preferred.

Yes, the more he thought about it as he approached their table, the more it made sense. Of course she regretted what had happened that evening. She wasn't that kind of woman. And him asking right away if he could see her again—well, anyone would have gotten the wrong idea, reassurances to the contrary. But now, by leaving her alone, she'd come to understand that he respected her, and she had obviously decided to give him a second chance.

He'd offer her his arm, and—

 

—and if her glare could have flayed his skin, it would have.

He'd been largely shielded from view by Hawke until they'd arrived at their table, so he'd been unable to see her until just now.

Whatever response he had been expecting, it wasn't this barely concealed _venom_. He'd hoped for friendliness. He'd realistically expected irritated toleration or, perhaps, anger.

But not this. Christ and all his apostles, what had he ever done to her to deserve that look?

Varric involuntarily took a step back.

Hawke, the idiot, had eyes only for the red-head. He murmured something to her, offered her his hand.

The red-head, though, was more perceptive. She hesitated, glanced uncertainly from Varric to Cassandra, and then looked back at Hawke. “I hadn't realized how crowded it was! Maybe we should wait to dance until it thins out a little bit?” she said in a slightly accented voice. French, maybe, unless Varric missed his guess. She smiled dazzlingly up at Hawke.

Varric knew Hawke had no chance against a smile like that. The lieutenant swallowed. “Of course, whatever—“

“Go, Leliana,” Cassandra said—no, ordered—in a cold, imperial voice. “You're kind to see I'm not feeling well, and offer to stay, but I'm sure Varric wouldn't mind keeping me company while you dance with the lieutenant. Would you, Varric?”

Varric murmured the only thing he could say in the situation, a not-very-convincing, “Of course not,” and sat down at the table.

Hawke helped his date up, and she got to her feet, still looking worried and uncertain. “Thank you, Cassandra,” Leliana said, in a tone that sounded as sure as Varric’s, looking back over her shoulder at the two of them as she allowed herself to be led away.

Cassandra waited until they could not be overheard, and then looked at him with cold eyes. “Varric,” she spat.

“Look,” Varric broke in, anxious to mollify her, correct whatever it was made her so angry. He looked down at the table, studying the scratched, dark wood to avoid her gaze. “This wasn't my idea. It was his.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of Hawke. He paused. “I actually thought he was coming over here to ask _you_ to dance. I'm glad he didn't.” He dared a look up at her, but her expression hadn't changed. “And then, well—I didn't know what to do, but I didn't mean to upset you,” he concluded lamely. And then, more softly, he added, “I thought—hoped—you might have changed your mind.”

Cassandra snorted, unmoved. “You think I changed my mind? Why? Because you _deigned_ to stare at me this evening I should be so flattered I should just… _jump_ into your arms?” she said sarcastically. “That I must not mean what I say because you hope otherwise? That I wish to be pestered with your _unwelcome_ attentions?” Her voice rose with anger during her little speech, so much so that Varric saw the occupants of the tables closest to them begin to murmur and look uneasy.

Varric had imagined he saw something in Cassandra. He had thought he saw someone with warmth and humor, someone caring and perceptive. He imagined—not that she loved him, not that he loved her—but that they were people who could have done these things had the circumstances been otherwise. Varric had allowed a small corner of himself to dream.

But now the table on which he had built that tiny, fanciful house of cards had been violently overturned. He saw them, the cards, tumbling through the air, desolate and scattered, Cassandra’s cold face and eyes in the background. Only the lingering folly of daring to dream remained, leaving its own bitter aftertaste.

He took a deep breath, still looking down at the table, studying a faded set of carved initials like his life depended on it. The room was closing in, and he felt a touch of panic gripping him, urging him to flee, to go outside where he could breathe. _Never let ‘em see you sweat_. _Never_ , his mind urged. _Don't let her see she's got to you._

He forced an easy smile on his face, forced his hands not to shake as he reached for his cigarettes, and casually found his matches. As he lit it and took the first drag, he felt everything slow down, and some of the tightness in his muscles eased.

He finally looked up at her. Cassandra’s face, her beautiful face, was twisted into a sneer.

“Can't blame a man for tryin’, darlin’.” He felt his accent get thicker, the words tinged with a molasses that made them slow and carefree. “And you sure do look pretty when you're all riled up.” He punctuated his words with a wink that caused a disgusted hiss to come from between her lips.

“You may stay here while our friends dance. I will not ruin Leliana’s enjoyment because you are not a gentleman. But I do not wish to ever be bothered by you again. I will not change my mind. Do you understand?”

“’Course,” he managed, throat tightening against any further response. He pushed his chair back and made a show of watching Hawke and Leliana.

They were good dancers, the two of them, he realized. Better than good. Great. Skill has a knack of recognizing skill, and he saw them slowly realize they were partnered with their equal, and start to flow around each other, two separate individuals making a unit.

Where in the hell had the lieutenant learn to dance like that?

One song finished, and Hawke and Leliana looked at each other, slightly flushed and out of breath. Varric figured they'd make their way back to the table, everyone would exchange good-byes, and Varric could proceed to obliterate the memory of this evening with a bottle of whiskey he kept hidden under his rack.

Then Glenn Miller’s _In the Mood_ came on. Hawke grinned, and Leliana put her hand on his shoulder, and Varric suspected then that he was in for a long evening.

“Think we’ll get ‘em off the floor tonight?” Varric asked, sometime later, putting a smile in his words he did not feel.

“Leliana looks happier than she has been in a while,” Cassandra said softly. “I would not grudge her this.”

Varric dared to steal a glance at her—and there she was again, the Cassandra he thought he had imagined, her eyes glimmering as she stared at her friend, her lips upturned just slightly at the edges.

But that made things even worse. If she was just a cold-hearted bitch, he could rationalize that and say good riddance. But she wasn't, not if her eyes were shining just to see her friend happy.

He felt the knife start to turn again in his guts.

“Why do you hate me so much?” The words arose from the same place the pain did, arriving unbidden in his mouth, barely above a whisper.

He thought, after a long pause between them, that she hadn't heard, and perhaps that was for the best.

“I don't hate you,” she said at last, turning to face him. She didn't look angry or cold anymore. No vestige remained of her previous soft happiness. She just looked—tired.

“Then—“

“I don't know you, and I want to keep it that way. Or rather, I know you well-enough to know I don't want to get to know you any further.” She smiled, or rather her lips mimicked a brittle imitation of a smile.

“So, you don't hate me, but you suspect you would if you got to know me better.” Varric wondered why she bothered to speak at all. “Darlin’, it's a good thing I don't spend too much much time around you, or my head wouldn't fit through the door, the way you go flatterin’ a man like that.” He meant it to sound amusing, sarcastic, dismissive. Instead, it came out a little sad, a little pathetic.

Varric turned away, back to stare at the dancers. He manhandled his box of cigarettes, and ripped another out, angrily clasping it between his fingers as he fumbled with his matches.

“No,” she said quietly. “No, I don't think that.”

Varric refused to turn back to her.

“I've lost everyone. Everyone. Don't you see? I can't do it again.” Her voice came out choked, desperate.

“Can't or won't?” Varric asked. She wasn't the only one that life had kicked square in the teeth.

But though he waited, she didn't answer.

Finally, he slid the cigarettes and matches across the table. “Have one,” he offered, still looking away.

He heard her get one out, heard the tell-tale hiss of the match.

“Thank you,” she said.

Varric nodded, and continued to watch his friend whirl and laugh with a beautiful woman, until his eyes blurred, and he couldn't see anymore.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story in the beginning that Leliana tells is largely true in spirit, and is kind of a mish-mash of different things I've read (to include the Germans trying to shoot down the Frech flag with a machine gun...)


	5. Chapter 5

“Do you want to come in and warm up for a bit?” Cassandra asked. She and Leliana had just arrived at her door after walking home from work. The steady rain had made everything prematurely dark and grey; the wind wended its way between buttons and cloth to chill the skin. It was an unseasonable, unpleasant day for early May.

Leliana hesitated.

“It’d be nice to have the company,” Cassandra said, numb hands fumbling at her door. Then, with a secret smile, she added, “Unless you're going out with your young lieutenant again tonight.”

Finally, she managed to wrest the door open, and motioned for Leliana to go ahead of her.

“He is not my young lieutenant, Cassandra, as you well know,” Leliana rejoined tartly, as she sailed through the door. “He’s just a good dancer. Besides, I’m almost old enough to be his mother.”

“I’m not sure anyone’s told him that,” Cassandra said.

Leliana half-turned to give her a sour look but said nothing more.

Cassandra was rather amused. Not that she actually thought there was anything between her friend and the lieutenant, but opportunities to tease Leliana presented themselves so few and far between that she intended on making the most of this.

She motioned for Leliana to make herself at home, and proceeded to the kitchen to fill the kettle for tea, and then debated whether to make some toast.

She shrugged. Toast was warm, which was its chief recommendation, but an important one in the circumstances. And she still had a little butter left. She’d splurge. It wasn’t as though she was saving it for anything in particular.

After some minutes at her tasks, she finally finished, and carried the tea and toast out to join Leliana, who had made herself at home.

The wireless had been turned to _Home Office_ , and Leliana had removed her shoes and tucked her feet under her on the couch, draping herself with a large blanket that represented one of Cassandra’s few efforts into crocheting. She had never had the requisite patience for it, and had given it up with a mixture of relief and guilt years ago. But the blanket was warm, if nothing else, and so she had kept it.

Leliana looked up from the book she was reading, and smiled her appreciation for the tea when Cassandra handed it to her, and then went back to her book.

Cassandra settled in comfortably on the opposite end of the couch, wondering idly if she should switch the radio to the other side and thinking how good it was to take her shoes off after a long, tiring day. She yawned, and was in the middle of eating her buttered toast when Leliana interrupted her train of thought.

“This book is delightful,” she said.

“Oh?” Cassandra said vaguely. “Which one is it?”

She was an unabashed reader, with shelves and shelves of books, from medical texts to history to biography, but her favorites were the classic romances. She rather liked Jane Eyre but tolerated Wuthering Heights only on sufferance (Catherine was too irritating). Austen, too, was a special friend, all of her books occupying prize of place on her shelf.

“I think this one is called…” Leliana trailed off and looked at the spine. “Ah, yes. _All Brides Are Beautiful_. I’ve never—“

“Give me that!” Cassandra interrupted, holding her hand out. She felt the flush creeping up her neck. She almost always had a book or two tucked behind the others. Trust Leliana to find it!

Leliana held the book closer. “But it’s so good so far! They’ve just gotten married—“

Leliana was quick, but Cassandra was quicker. She grabbed the book out of her friend’s hands, and closed it with a thump.

Leliana looked at her with astonishment.

“I—“ Cassandra scrambled for an excuse. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. I’ll lend it to you when I’m done,” she offered, knowing she would have to lose it—intentionally—before then.

“Do you think you could be done in a week? I can hardly wait! Next Monday, maybe?”

“I…don’t know.” Cassandra shifted uncomfortably in her seat at the half-lie, and looked away. “I don’t know if I’ll have it read by then.”

“Well, as soon as you can, of course!” Leliana chirped happily. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have a friend like you, Cassandra.”

Cassandra felt a deep stab of guilt. She shouldn’t lie to her friend, but what was else was she to do? Share her shameful love of sinful romance books? She’d never live it down.

Leliana continued, “I’m glad we have that kind of relationship, the kind where we don’t tease each other about things.  Like, for example, our dance partners or the books we read.”

It took a few moments for that to sink in. When it did, Cassandra looked up at Leliana, who was smiling, merriment dancing in her eyes.

“You are awful,” Cassandra ground out through gritted teeth. “And to think I invited you in, and wasted my butter on you! Get out, back in the cold!”

Leliana didn’t move, but put her hand over her mouth and _laughed_.

“Out!” Cassandra insisted, bringing her feet up and attempting to push Leliana off the couch, which only made her friend laugh more.

Cassandra waited it out, disgruntled, as Leliana's shoulders shook, and her eyes watered with mirth.  Finally, wiping tears away, Leliana bit her lip and said, “I am so sorry, my friend, but you should have seen the look on your face!”

“Yes, yes, you got me,” Cassandra grudged.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve known you hide books behind your third shelf for over a year now.”

“You—what?” If Cassandra was embarrassed before, she didn’t know how to describe what she felt now. Suffice it to say, if there was a way of neatly and painlessly sinking into the couch, she'd have done it.

“It makes the books on the end bow out slightly. Like so.” Leliana demonstrated with her hands.

“Am I truly so transparent?” Cassandra asked, chagrined.

“Yes!” Leliana laughed again. “I thought you knew. You don’t have a dishonest or sneaky bone in your body.”

At Cassandra's obvious dismay, Leliana sat up, and stretched out to give her a hug. “It’s a good thing! Don’t ever change. Ever,” she said fiercely against her shoulder.

Cassandra flinched at first. Though she didn't dislike them, Leliana’s continental ways took some getting used to; she could count on the fingers of one hand the number of people she’d hugged. Leliana’s easiness always served to take her off-guard. But when she relaxed enough to put her arms stiffly around Leliana in turn, she felt unaccountably like weeping. If someone had asked, though, she couldn’t have said why. She just felt the urge to cry as she hadn't in a long time.

Panicked, Cassandra broke the embrace before she embarrassed herself any further, if that, indeed, was even possible.

She tried to laugh it off. “Well, now that you know about my secret, I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t read my books while you are here.”

“No reason,” Leliana agreed solemnly, with a twinkle in her eye.

Cassandra sat back, book in hand, and opened it to the page where she had left off. With one more mistrustful gaze at Leliana, who had obviously shifted her attention to what was being said on _Home Office_ , she settled in to the loves, triumphs, and travails of _All Brides Are Beautiful_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t asleep. Just…comfortable.

It was rare since she had left France to be so utterly at peace. Being in England rather reminded her of wearing wool: it had many fine qualities, but just when you least expected it, it would itch or irritate, making you long for the time you no longer had to hold it uncomfortably close to your skin.

She let the sounds of _Home Office_ drift over her, punctuated by the periodic soft rustling of Cassandra’s pages.

A small smile found its way to her lips. It was amusing, and endearing, how embarrassed Cassandra was over her reading material. All Brides Are Beautiful wasn’t exactly fine literature. But it was hardly as racy as Cassandra supposed it to be.

But then, she had surmised long ago that Cassandra had had a rather sheltered upbringing.

They actually had very little in common, except being of the same age. The Matron had brought them together, really. Meredith Stannard—and Leliana couldn’t think of her with anything but distaste—had let it be known she didn’t care for the French, and thought they were lazy thieves who couldn't be trusted, and a few other things besides. She had been tolerated only on sufferance, given the worst shifts and the worst duties. But to add insult to injury, the Matron would do things to check up on her in front of the other nurses, like counting her supplies and checking the dispensary logs. Soon, the other nurses took their cue from the Matron, and began to treat her the same way.

Everyone except for Cassandra. She had treated Leliana with distant politeness at first, but after the problems started, she had sought her out with a righteous indignation. Cassandra was one of the most respected nurses in the hospital (though Leliana doubted she knew that) and with her support, the worst of the behavior against her had been curbed. Even the Matron had softened to treat her with only a semi-tolerant disgust.

Not the she couldn't have handled or ignored Meredith—she had dealt with far worse, and ill-treatment at the hands of a petty Matron hardly signified—but she was truly touched by Cassandra. Most people weren't the kind to stand up to others.

Cassandra was an unexpected friend, but a better one than she might have deserved.

She took a sip of her rapidly cooling tea, and became aware she hadn't heard pages turning for some time. More than likely, her friend had fallen asleep. It had been a long day at work, and Cassandra had looked exhausted.

She cracked open an eye and was surprised to see the book open in Cassandra’s lap, and Cassandra herself staring pensively into the distance.

“What’s wrong?" Leliana asked, straightening up. “Don’t tell me. The hero got married to the wrong heroine.”

Cassandra acknowledged Leliana’s joke with a small smile. Her smile quickly faded, though, and her eyes resumed the far-away look they had earlier.

Leliana was slightly worried. Had been for a while, in truth. Cassandra really was as transparent to read as glass, and something wasn’t right with her. Leliana could’ve extracted the reason a month ago as easily as turning a key in a lock, but Cassandra was her friend, and a private person, and Leliana respected that.

But it might be time to probe a bit more deeply; her friend seemed to be getting worse, not better. Leliana had thought at first it was probably something to do with her fiancé. His death had been a devastating loss, and, having never gotten a chance to truly mourn, Cassandra would bottle up her grief until it had a tendency to overflow at unpredictable moments. Increasingly, however, she was sure that it was something more than that.

“Shall I send a sternly worded letter to the author?” Leliana asked, laughing, keeping the conversation light.

Cassandra started, jerked out of her thoughts again. “Oh! Yes, I mean—I’m sure that would be fine,” she said vaguely.

Leliana pressed her lips together and considered. She’d already tried asking directly, expressing her concern and support, to no avail.

Guilt? Would guilt work to get Cassandra to express what so plagued her?

It would.

Cassandra was so duty-driven and morally upright the merest shadow of guilt would work like a charm. Leliana hated to do it, but it didn't appear there were any other choices that would extract the truth.  The only other option was to let the matter lie and possibly fester. She knew which she preferred. Leliana took a deep breath, working herself up to it, when thankfully, Cassandra spared her the trouble.

“Leliana,” Cassandra said abruptly, her eyes snapping back from wherever they had gone to look her in the eye. “Do you think the Americans will be leaving very soon?”

 _What an odd question_. “It's hard to say exactly,” Leliana temporized. “But from what I hear, it will be a few more weeks at the most. Possibly sooner.”

“Ah,” Cassandra said, and fell silent.

Leliana waited. Silence was an under-utilized technique for drawing people out. Once people had started to talk, they usually wanted to finish—at their own pace and in their own way, of course.

“I shall be glad when they go,” Cassandra said firmly.

 _Trouble with a man_? Although that would be surprising, since as far as Leliana knew, Cassandra hadn't been seeing anyone.

“Well, I shall miss my dancing partner when he leaves,” Leliana said lightly.

“Yes, of course,” Cassandra replied. “Forgive me. I was being selfish.” She was too still, taut and fragile, except for a forefinger and thumb that still held a toast edge. Cassandra clutched it too tightly, and toast crumbs began to fall in a gentle stream from her hand to the couch and floor.

Leliana’s heart began to ache. She saw Cassandra’s mouth open and close a few times. Frustration, pain, and even fear were writ large in the lines etched on her face.

Finally—“I haven't been feeling well recently,” Cassandra choked out, looking at her beseechingly. But even Leliana didn't have quite enough information to be able to interpret that statement.

“I know,” Leliana said sympathetically, smiling gently, urging her on.

Cassandra stared at her for a few more feeble seconds, then dropped her eyes. “I just read something in my book, and it started me thinking—I don't know.” The silence lingered, and then Cass shook her head. “It is nothing, I am sure.” She waved her hand dismissively.

Leliana had had enough. She reached over and grabbed Cassandra’s hand, enfolding her smaller fingers around it. “I am your friend. If something bothers you, it bothers me. Do you understand?” she said fiercely. “I am _here_. And I will help you with anything. But you have to tell me what it is.”

Cassandra looked up at her, and in that moment, Leliana saw only fear in her eyes. “Please, tell me,” she entreated.

Cassandra swallowed. “God forbid, Leliana. God forbid. But I think I might be—“and she paused, and her mouth worked but no noise came out, as if she were physically unable to continue. Finally, she closed her eyes, screwed up her face, and her words came out in a rush. “I might have been careless.”

 _Careless_? The pieces began to arrange themselves in her mind, one after the other, building up, clicking swiftly into place, until there was no doubt. _Oh no_. She hurt for Cassandra, felt her stomach drop, almost as if it had been she herself receiving the news.

“Cassandra,” she whispered, “my dear, dear friend.” She reached up to tuck an errant lock of hair behind Cassandra’s ear, pulling her chin up so she could see her face. “Do you mean to say that you might be pregnant?”

Cassandra flinched at the word, and the sudden glistening of tears in her eyes told Leliana all she needed to know.

She pulled her friend into an embrace, and Cassandra did not resist this time, but put her head on Leliana’s shoulder and cried, with deep gulping, gasping sobs. Leliana felt an answering wetness in her own eyes.  
  
She spoke to Cassandra as she would a child. “It will be all right. Shhhh. Shhh…We’ll figure it out. Shhh, my dear, dear friend..." she murmured.

Leliana had more questions, more answers that she needed to know, but now wasn't the time. She held her friend, rocking, soothing, long after her sobs ceased.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So let's see:
> 
> -All Brides Are Beautiful is the name of an actual book from the era, and apparently it possessed some literary merit, and was not the pseudo-smutty romance I've presented it as here. But the title made me chuckle, and it sounded like something Cassandra would read, so I used it. My apologies to the long-deceased author.
> 
> -Meredith's perceived attitude toward Leliana is based in part on my grandmother, who, to the end of her life, whenever the French were mentioned, would mutter darkly, "Can't trust the French," even if it had no apparent relevance to the conversation. It was her version of Cartago delenda est, I suppose.


	6. Chapter 6

Cassandra woke up slowly, peacefully. It was warm under her blankets, and she was comfortable. She stretched, and slowly sat up and—

Her eyelids were heavy, and she had to force them open to wipe the grit out of her eyes, and her head _throbbed_.

“Good morning, Cassandra.” Leliana stepped into her room gingerly, bearing a tray with what looked like scrambled powdered eggs, toast, and tea.

Oh God, last night.

She had been under a lot of stress, and she hadn't been eating well or sleeping well—for years now, really. It was no wonder she had been sick, and run down, and nauseous, and tired.

Half of the nurses at the hospital could probably same the same.

Vague worry had clung to the margins of her mind, sending tendrils out to probe her defenses, but she had pushed them firmly away. It was ridiculous, and she had work, and it was impossible.

Until she had realized—no, not realized—it was not something she had noticed all of a sudden. She had been waiting, expecting the first month. Hoping and praying the second.

And then, slowly her fears, the fears she had relegated to nightmares, expanded into reality.

And last night, eating her toast, and feeling a familiar wave of nausea wash over her, she had realized it was no longer nothing, but something.

She had wept on Leliana’s shoulder, cried until she was exhausted and numb.

A hazy recollection came to her, of Leliana walking her to her room, tucking the blankets around her, and getting a cold compress for her head. She had been too wrung out at that point to feel anything but comfort and gratitude, and when Leliana had told her to sleep, she had obediently complied.

But now, in the light of day, embarrassment came swiftly, as Leliana walked across the room and put the tray down in her lap, before sitting beside her on the bed.

“Eat,” she advised, gently, handing Cassandra a fork. “You need your strength.”

“How did you—I mean, breakfast—how—“

“I slept on the couch. I didn't want to leave you,” Leliana replied matter-of factly.

“I'm sorry,” Cassandra murmured, feeling the warm flush in her cheeks. “For putting you to all this trouble, I mean.” She studied her plate to avoid looking at her friend, and the judgment she was afraid she'd see in her eyes.

“What trouble?” Leliana asked. “You are a friend. There is no trouble.”

“I shouldn't have burdened you with—“

Leliana cut her off. “Cassandra, listen to me. I don't want to hear any of that nonsense again. Friends help each other, do they not?” She smiled. “Now eat my scrambled eggs. I didn't spend five whole minutes making them so you could let them grow cold.”

Cassandra swallowed, looked up at her friend, and admitted in a small voice, “I don't know how much I can even eat right now.”

“Most women get sick, but eating a little often helps. Start with the toast,” Leliana said gently. “If you can, slowly work your way up from there. Whenever you are ready, if you wish, we will talk.”

Cassandra nodded reluctantly.

“Good,” Leliana said, giving her hand a comforting squeeze as she rose from the bed. “Whenever you are ready,” she repeated.

 

* * *

 

  
Cassandra finally emerged from her room, holding the mostly empty tray. Leliana had been right. Cassandra, left to her own devices, had not been eating very much, until forced to by hunger, whereupon she'd do so quickly and mechanically, forcing what she could down before the tide of nausea became so strong she had to stop. But eating slowly had seemed to stem the worst of the sickness, until she felt almost like herself.

Her stomach mostly settled, Cassandra had lingered over her few remaining tasks. She took her time freshening up, doing her hair, and making her bed, until she could delay no longer.

Cassandra was not a coward. She was not indecisive. But on this, she felt as though she were standing at the edge of a yawning crevasse, the only solution being to hurtle herself into the darkness, with no idea of where she'd land or what awaited her on the other side.

It was terrifying.

But putting it off was not going to make the problem any better. She put her tray in the sink and walked reluctantly to the living room, where Leliana was reading, seated in one of her armchairs. They were rather ornate, battered things from the last century, the sort of chairs that deigned to allow you to sit on them rather than the opposite.

Leliana put aside the book she was reading when Cassandra walked in, and gave her a brief smile. Cassandra perched herself on the other armchair, tense and stressed by the conversation she was about to have.

Then again, in some ways, it was a relief. This problem could not be ignored until it went away; the sooner she decided, the quicker she could take action.

“Thank you for the breakfast. And the advice. It helped.”

Leliana nodded her head gracefully. “You are welcome.”

“I would like to talk. About…the situation.” Cassandra shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“You know I will help you in any way I can.”

There was a long pause as Cassandra tried, and failed, to collect her thoughts. “I have no idea how to begin.”

“Forgive me asking, Cassandra,” Leliana said, “but are you quite sure you are...with child? It could not be anything else?”

Cassandra smiled without humor. “I have spent the last two months trying to convince myself it is something else,” she replied. “But I cannot deny the truth any longer. I am as sure as it is possible to be. I have all the symptoms.” Long fingers of despair began to claw their way up her throat.

She saw a flash of sympathy in Leliana’s eyes, the lines around her mouth softening, her hands moving as if to reach out, but the impression was gone as quickly as it had come.

“Do you…I assume you'd like to get it taken care of?” Leliana asked, oblique, sensitive, delicate—her meaning clear.

Would she? Of course. To wake up tomorrow and have this never to have happened—to go to work, to rise to the challenges the Matron set her, to help those who entrusted themselves to her care, and wake up the next day and do the same thing over again, because it was important, and it mattered, and she was needed? Yes, that was what she wanted.

“I don't know,” she said miserably.

Because if she was right—and she was, she no longer doubted any more—it wasn't just about what she wanted. It was also about the child growing inside her.

“My dear friend,” Leliana said, worry and care on her face, “if it is the procedure you worry about, we will get the best. The best,” she emphasized, nodding at Cassandra. “I have money put aside. It would be…” she paused, biting her lip as she searched for words. “I can't imagine a better use it could be put to than helping you,” she concluded gently.

Cassandra was touched. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

There was a long silence as she considered what she thought, what she wanted to say.

Nothing came.

“I just…I do not know,” she said, putting her head in her hands, feeling tears prick against her eyelids again, tears she angrily brushed away.

Picking her head up, she looked at Leliana, who, bless her, had remained silent this whole time, allowing Cassandra to sort the mismatched pieces of her thoughts.

“I don’t know,” she said again, frustrated. “Taking care of it would be the sensible thing to do, would it not?”

“Yes,” Leliana murmured, but it was less an agreement than a validation of her thoughts, an invitation to continue.

Cassandra’s hands fluttered as she reached for the words. “But I cannot help but to think that it would be wrong. I would be taking a life—an innocent life. How could God approve of that? How could it be His will? Especially when He sent this to me.” She paused and looked up at Leliana and found neither agreement or disagreement, but a quiet patience.

“How can I live my faith, how can I look in the mirror, if when things get difficult I cast off my beliefs? How, Leliana?”

Agitated, Cassandra stood up, and started pacing back and forth in the small room. “I don’t want this child. I would give anything to change what happened. I do not want to be a mother.”

Her hand stole unconsciously to her abdomen and she stilled. “But can I throw this away as if it never happened? Go on with my life and pretend? Knowing that I killed my child, not for good, not because it was right, not because I had no other options, but because I was _selfish_? Because I didn't wish to be _inconvenienced_?”

Cassandra threw herself back into her chair. “I don’t know,” she said again. “I don’t want it, but I don’t think I could—could get rid of it. No,” she admitted despairingly. “I cannot.” It hung in the air, an admission that could not be taken back—because until she said it, she hadn't realized it was true.

Tears came again, and this time she was powerless to stop them. They spilled from her eyes, overflowed down her cheeks, tiny rivulets chasing each other to her lips.

Leliana looked at her with pity and compassion in her eyes, in her smile. “It is a difficult path you have picked for yourself. Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she whispered, the salt of her tears filling her mouth. “The war—there is death all around us. I will not add to it. The child is blameless.”

Leliana leaned forward, bridging the distance between them, grasping her hand. “Cassandra, have you thought this through? You are one of the best people I have met, but you are an idealist. You…what will you do? Go away, give it up? You can't possibly keep the child. Unless—perhaps you should talk to the man in question?” A frown crossed her face. “Or is he...unsuitable?”

_Varric. Oh, Varric._

“I do not think he is married, if that is what you are asking, Leliana.” The thought came to her how very little she knew of him—perhaps he was married. “But I do not think….Oh, Leliana….” She gulped, halfway in between a sob and a sigh. “I hardly know him. And the last time I saw him, I was cruel. Unforgivable.”

“You are carrying his child,” Leliana said pointedly. “That has a way of changing things.” She sighed. “Either way, you should talk to him. It is your decision, but perhaps he will be able to help you. And he should be given the opportunity to do the right thing, as he sees fit.” There was a pause. “But if it is one of the Americans, though, as you have hinted, you must speak to him very soon.”

“It is Varric, Leliana,” Cassandra blurted.

Leliana’s eyebrows rose, and her mouth dropped open for a brief second. “Hawke’s friend?”

“Yes.”

Leliana studied her for a moment, an unreadable look in her eyes.

“But I do not know how to contact him. And even if I did, I doubt he'd read any correspondence I sent.” Cassandra saw Leliana about to say something, and cut her off. “As I said, it did not end well.”

Leliana nodded, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I suppose if you wish to speak to him, I can send a message to Lieutenant Hawke in regards to the Sergeant, and make him aware of the…urgency of the situation.”

Cassandra slumped in her chair. What was she about to do? Her life—so planned, so predictable, so controlled, was racing out of her grasp. She was terrified.

“That would probably be for the best, Leliana,” she said, struggling to keep the note of panic out of her voice. “Thank you.”

Leliana squeezed her hand once more. “I will write it now, then.”

As Leliana left the room, Cassandra cast her eyes sightlessly to the heavens is a short, desperate prayer.

_God help me._

 


	7. Chapter 7

The private knocked perfunctorily on his door. “Boss, message for you.”

“Come in, Bull,” he said, looking up briefly from his desk and motioning the soldier over. “Just put it there.” He indicated a spare corner of his desk—if you could call a piece of plywood laid over crates a desk—and went back to reconciling the gear requisition for the platoon.

“Might be important,” Bull advised. “Want me to wait for an answer?”

Hawke grunted and finished adding his current column of numbers while the shadow of Bull loomed over him.

Bull’s name wasn’t really Bull, of course. He was Polish, and had some unpronounceable –ski name that had more consonants in it than any name had a right to have. But at well over six feet tall and probably more than 250 pounds of muscle, Bull seemed more appropriate.

Hawke finally looked up and frowned. “Wait outside,” he said. “I can’t think when you’re around. It’s like a tree is constantly threatening to fall on my head. Or I’m about to be mauled by a giraffe.”

Bull grinned. “Whatever you want, boss.”

Hawke smiled and shook his head after Bull left, and turned his attention to the note.

He was expecting some new missive of impossibility from headquarters. If he was very lucky, it would even directly contradict orders he had already received.

But he got a surprise when he retrieved it from the corner of his paper-strewn desk, and found the message was addressed to him in a distinctly feminine hand. His heart started to beat a little faster. He opened it, and his eyes flashed to the bottom. Leliana.

He hoped she wasn’t canceling tonight. That was the only thing he had had to look forward to today. Leliana was good-looking, of course. Any fool with a set of eyes could see that. But she also had a beautiful smile, a lovely, throaty laugh, and eyes that sparkled with humor and mischief. And her head fit so nicely tucked under his chin during the slower dances, and his arm wrapped perfectly around her waist and hips. Close like that, he could even faintly smell the flowers of her soap or perfume, hear and feel the soft intake of her breath—

He cleared his throat and read.

 _My dear Lieutenant Hawke, it said_ (and he definitely did not notice the ‘my’), _I apologize for disturbing you at your work. I would not do so if this was not a time-sensitive matter of some importance. When we meet this evening, I need you to bring Sergeant Tethras with you. I know this seems an unusual request, but I promise you it is an absolute necessity. Please believe me for now, and I will explain later._

It was odd. He furrowed his brow trying to think of any possible reason Leliana could need his friend, but nothing came to mind.

But he had work to do, and his head already hurt. He didn’t want to spend time playing guessing games.

He did trust Leliana, though. If she said it was important, it was important.

His biggest problem would be getting Varric there. He had refused to go out for the last few weeks. Just asking him if he wanted to come would likely meet with a stern refusal. But he had an idea.

“Bull!” he called out.

The giant stuck his head in the door. “Yeah, boss?”

“Sir. It’s sir. Not boss.” Hawke rubbed his temples wearily. He and Bull had already had this conversation. Many times. “No reply to the message, but get Sergeant Tethras in here.”

‘Sure thing, bo—sir.”

By the time Varric reported, the sun had descended considerably toward the horizon, and Hawke had almost finished his paperwork.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

Hawke looked up and eyed his sergeant critically. His hands, face and uniform were liberally streaked with mud, and black rifle carbon was smeared on his sleeve cuffs. He was sweaty, and his hair fell in an untidy tumble over his forehead.

“Sorry for interrupting your field exercise, but I have some good news,” he said, grinning, falling into their old pattern.

Varric gave him a tired smile. “It’s never good news when you say it like that.”

Hawke almost started it, his story about how some of their men had broken some things at the bar, and how the bartender was demanding restitution before he’d let any of their soldiers back in. How he and Varric were going to have to go down there to smooth things over.

But then he looked at Varric and realized he couldn’t spin his tale. He would soon have to trust this man with his life, if he didn’t already. But respect and trust were a two-way street. He couldn't deceive his friend like that, even if it was for a good reason.

“I got this today,” he said. He reached into his breast pocket. He'd tucked the message there earlier for safekeeping, and now he handed it to Varric.

Varric smirked as he opened the message and saw who it was from. “Sir, I don’t need or want to read your love letters.”

Hawke felt the slight flush creep up his cheeks. He thought he had been subtle in keeping his feelings to himself. Evidently, his subtle was still obvious enough for Varric.

“It’s not a love letter,” Hawke bit out. “Just read it.”

Varric’s eyes began scanning the note, and his smile faded into a frown. Finally, he sighed, folded the message up, and handed it back.

“I appreciate you sharing this with me,” Varric said, his expression unreadable. “What do you want me to do?”

“I’d like you to come. You know as much as I do what this is about, but I trust Leliana. If she says there's a reason you need to be there, well…you need to be there. What do you think?”

Varric didn't say anything at first, and Hawke waited in the increasingly strained silence.

Finally, Varric said, “What I think is that I don’t have any business with Leliana. Or that friend of hers, Cassandra. I think it’s trouble. But—” and Varric cut Hawke off as he tried to interject, “but I’ll go if you want me to. I trust you,” he said, simply.

Hawke nodded, feeling the unexpected weight of Varric’s words on his shoulders, the tremendous responsibility to live up to them.

“Thank you,” he said, with a calmness he did not feel. “We’ll leave as soon as you can get washed up and changed. When you’re done, come get me.”

Varric nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, and excused himself.

Hawke looked back down at his paperwork. He hoped he had done the right thing.

 

* * *

 

 

  
Varric had to take two steps to the lieutenant’s one. He was used to it, of course, but it was still irritating when he was already in a foul mood. His joints still ached from his day in the field—and Christ, when had that started happening? He was getting old.

His scowl deepened when he considered he was probably being dragged out on a fool’s errand. What, he had no idea. But that letter was the most melodramatic piece of horseshit he’d read in a while. An urgent matter of some importance indeed. He snorted.

But he did respect the fact the lieutenant told him what the whole thing was about. Hawke was someone he could trust, even if he didn’t trust Leliana. He had a feeling Hawke was going to be wrong, but the lieutenant deserved the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.

That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, though.

Varric noticed the lieutenant threatening to outpace him again. “Slow down,” he said, irritated.

“Sorry.” Hawke cast him a guilty look. “We’re a bit late.”

“Ever hear the one about the old bull and the young bull?”

“Yes,” Hawke said testily.

They walked in silence the rest of the way there, Hawke occasionally sighing impatiently for Varric’s benefit.

As far as Varric was concerned, Hawke could kiss his ass.

“There they are,” Hawke muttered. “Waiting outside for us, I guess.”

Varric eyes weren’t quite as sharp as Hawke’s, but he didn’t like the sound of “they”.

As they drew closer, his suspicions were confirmed. Leliana and Cassandra. His feet carried him unwillingly forward the rest of the way.

“Ladies!” Hawke said. “What a pleasant surprise to see you both.”

Varric managed a nod.

“Shall we go inside?” Hawke gestured to the door.

“I would love to,” said Leliana, taking his arm.

Varric was unmoved. He wasn’t going inside to make small talk only to find out two hours later that the problem was a misplaced hairpin or some such. “What’s this very urgent matter then?”

Leliana and Cassandra exchanged a glance.

“Come with me, lieutenant?” Leliana entreated. “Cassandra and Sergeant Tethras have some things to discuss.”

Hawke raised his eyebrow at him and Varric gave a curt nod. He watched the couple until they disappeared inside the door, then turned to look at Cassandra.

“As long as I’m here, I may as well find out what this is about. Another opportunity to rake me across the coals?”

Cassandra winced, but said nothing more. Finally, “Walk with me, Varric?”

When he didn’t respond immediately, “Please?” she asked.

He should say no. He should. But she looked upset, and frightened, and what was he going to do, walk away from a woman in distress?

 _Yes_ , his brain replied, but his mouth had already formed the words, “All right.”

He motioned for her to go first. He could’ve offered his arm, but quite frankly, he didn’t want to. He had no wish to make a fool of himself again.

He trailed after her as they walked down one street and then another. “Where are you going?” he finally asked.

“There’s a footpath around here…” she murmured, as much to herself as to him. “Ah, here we are.”

More silence lingered as they walked along the path, getting further and further away from the town beneath them.

When they had gone about a mile, she stopped and sat on a crumbling stone wall that adjoined one of the fields. He shrugged and sat beside her, taking stock of his surroundings. It was actually a nice evening. There was a half-moon out, enough to see by, but everything was bathed in soft shades of blue-black. It was warm, and everything was still.

His companion still didn’t seem inclined to speak, but the mild exertion of the walk and the peacefulness of his surroundings slowly bled his irritation away. He waited patiently.

“You are probably wondering why I brought you here,” she said finally, turning toward him stiffly. She flashed a glance at his face, and then looked away.

“Of course,” he said mildly. “But I’ll wait for whenever you’re ready.”

“I am sorry about the walk. I did not wish to be seen, or overheard.”

She bit her lip and Varric felt a tiny, traitorous bit of concern well up inside him.

“Everything’s all right. Unless you’re planning on making me walk another five miles. I don’t think my feet can take more than three.”

His small joke served to break the tension just a bit. Cassandra gave a brief laugh, and he smiled back.

“I—I’m sorry, Varric,” she said. She continued on in a rush, “What I said the other evening came across as quite cruel. Because it was, but it was never meant for you.”

Varric’s head spun a bit as he tried to make his way around that piece of twisted logic.

“I mean,” she continued, “I said it to you, but it was just to push you away. You see,” she stopped and looked up at the sky, “everyone I loved has been taken from me. My brother and my father were both killed in The Great War. And my mother shortly thereafter. And my fiancé,” she gulped, “last year.”

He reached across the distance between them, putting his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not be sorry. I am the one who needs to apologize. None of those things justifies what I said, but perhaps it serves to explain it.” She looked at him finally, studied his face. “I did not want to be close to anyone again that I might…lose, for lack of a better word.”

He understood her meaning, even if she tried to phrase it delicately. He didn’t suppose he could blame her.

“I want you to know, regardless of how we part this evening, that I am truly, truly sorry.”

He was touched that she cared enough to arrange this. His feet were a bit put out that she had to drag him up to the hills to say it, but…she seemed sincere and sorry. And who was he to refuse to grant forgiveness? He himself had often said things he didn’t mean in the heat of the moment, when he was angry or hurt.

“Apology accepted,” he said, clasping her hand. “And hopefully,” he smiled, “we can part as friends.”

He rose to his feet. “Would you like to go back? Maybe I could buy you a drink, and we could watch our friends whirl themselves dizzy?” He punctuated his words with a smile, and waited for her to rise.

“Varric…there’s something else.”

“Oh?” he said, his smile fading at the tone in her voice.

“Yes.”

He was closer to her now than he had been when they were sitting side-by-side, and he could see her jaw clench in an agony of tension.

“Hey. _Hey_ ,” he whispered, starting to get concerned. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. It can’t be that bad.”

She looked away. Her voice shaking slightly, she said, “When we were...together, I was not as careful as I should have been.”

He felt the world stop, grind to halt. The only thing he heard was the frenzied beating of his heart in his throat. Did she mean…

“I’m going to have a child.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

His outstretched hands reached numbly for purchase on the wall. His vision swam, and he sat down heavily, the ground suddenly none-too-sure under his feet.

“A… _child_.” He repeated the words. She was going to have a child? _His_ child? He dazedly tried to figure out what that meant, but the buzzing in his ears made it impossible.

“Yes,” Cassandra confirmed from her place beside him, in a none-too-steady voice.

A child. With Cassandra.

A peal of incredulous laughter bubbled its way to his lips. He wasn't a father. The very notion was absurd. Maybe they weren't careful—but she was a nurse for Christ’s sake, not some idiot girl who didn't know better. She hadn't said anything that night, so he didn't worry. Christ, why hadn't she at least told him—

But that wasn't fair. It wasn't her fault. His stupidity, and his alone, loomed large. He could've gotten a rubber. He could've pulled out. He could've told her, “No thank you, I think I'll just stay here and watch my guys.” Hell, he could've just asked.

He just—he just didn't. She was beautiful and passionate and yielding, and he…well, he wanted her so badly, and just assumed everything was taken care of.

And now, she was pregnant and unmarried and he was about to leave, maybe forever. The thought stuck in his throat.

He had acted like a selfish bastard.

Then a dark thought came, unbidden. Had she tried to have this happen? The war had been going on for longer here in England, and an American soldier could be an appealing option if there weren't many alternatives. It wasn't unusual to hear of weddings, or large amounts of cash changing hands, or— _not_ in his platoon—desperate women left to fend for themselves.

But he immediately dismissed the thought. She wasn't a woman, she was Cassandra, and little though he knew about her, he knew enough. Varric was no stranger to—to burnishing the truth—but he had never thought Cassandra was anything but honest. Painfully so. Even now. He chanced a sideways glance at her and unexpectedly ached. An actress, a schemer would've been sobbing, screaming, demanding to know his intentions. Instead, she sat, hugging knees drawn up in front of her, facing away from him, tension and hurt radiating off of her in waves, in the way she held her body unmoving, neither demanding nor expecting comfort.

Shit. He had no idea how he could even start to make this right. But he had to try. He was responsible for this mess and he needed to fix it. For her, and—and the kid.

He tried to stay calm, even as his mind tried to race ahead of him.

_Focus. Deep breath. Hold it. Focus. Exhale. One thing at a time. Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale._

He put his head in his hands, willing coherent thought, a plan of action—above all the right words, which were usually so easy for him. But with her, somehow, the words came harder, because they mattered. Now more than ever.

He waited as the seconds turned to minutes, lost in the thoughts that tumbled this way and that, just…delaying. He knew what he had to do, had known it since she told him, really. It was just so big and…and terrifying. He rubbed his hands over his face, fingers catching on his stubble, the slight abrasion dragging on his fingertips. The words still weren't clear in his mind, but it was time to say them.

He looked over at her again and winced, for she hadn't moved, just sat there rigid, like a proud oak in a storm it knew it might not weather.

He had been so taken aback, he'd scarcely spared a thought for her. She must have been terrified since she had found out, and she had come to him, trusting him, and his response had been…well...not good.

He took one final deep breath, gathered himself, and pushed off the low wall.

She raised her eyes and turned her head slightly when he came to stand beside her.

“I just thought you should know.” She swallowed, and then pushed her lips up in a painful facsimile of a smile. “I don't need anything. It is fine.”

“Darlin’,” he started, stepping closer to her, “don't say that. We’ll figure this out. Ok? _You_ ,” he said, reaching out to place his hand on her heart for a moment, “and _me_ ,” he emphasized. He smiled into eyes that regarded him doubtfully for a few seconds, then resumed staring off into the distance.

She wasn't going to make this easy on him, was she?

Getting down on one knee would be ridiculous. With her sitting up on the wall, he wasn't sure she'd even be able to see him. And he couldn't even take her hands since she had them linked behind her long legs.

He never thought he'd be in this position—or at least he hadn't thought about it for years—but he had imagined…a kind of giddy anticipation. Romance, even.

Not a dim night with cold sweat trickling down his neck, proposing to a woman who would barely look at him.

“We should get married.”

There. He had said the words. Perhaps with as much enthusiasm as he'd propose dental work, but he had said them and now that he had done it, the words seemed right. The key to a lock he didn't even know he was trying to pick, but whose tumblers slid open nonetheless.

Cassandra turned surprised eyes to him, an inscrutable look on her face.

“That wasn't exactly the proposal a woman dreams about,” he admitted. “I'm—uh—“ he fumbled, searching for the right word, but failing. “Anyway, the…the news…” he said carefully, “was unexpected—but I meant what I said.”

He looked at her hopefully, but the slight glimmer of moisture in her eyes hit him in the gut.

“Well, shi—“ The profanity almost slipped out before he stopped himself.

He reached up to catch the wayward tears gently with his thumbs, cursing himself for making a mess of this whole thing. “Don't cry, darlin’. Don't cry. It's not that bad. We’ll take care of this together. I promise.”

But the tears kept falling, unabated. Even as Cassandra brushed his hands away, and swiped angrily at them, new ones quickly took their place.

It made him hurt to see it.

“Come on,” he encouraged, his voice thick, but managing a playful wink for her. “I know I’m not the handsomest guy around, but the tears are a bit much, don't you think?”

He was rewarded, finally, with an unwilling, wet laugh, and the knots in his stomach eased just a bit.

“I just—I'm here, ok? Whatever you want. But,” he said sincerely, swallowing around the lump in his throat, “I ain't—I'm not going to be here very much longer. And I can't protect you and the—“ he stumbled slightly, “—the kid how I want. How I should. But at least this way, if anything happens to me, you'll be taken care of. And if we don’t get married, well—I wouldn't want the kid to have to grow up like that, or you to have to deal with it. You know how people are.”

There was a long silence and then she agreed, softly, “Yes, I know how people are.” The words _cruel_ and _malicious_ hung in the air, just as surely as if they had been said. “Perhaps I am not making the wisest decision. But…I am not…I cannot…more death, more suffering. Do you know?”

He knew.

“I would also not punish you for my mistake. I have—have been on my own before. I could move somewhere, find something…I would survive.” Her lips thinned, and a look of...no—not determination..crossed her face. It was the resignation of someone embarking on an arduous task, someone who would do what they had to do. The look of someone who would suffer, long and hard, but in silence. The look of someone who wouldn't just try, but would succeed.

She stared fiercely at him then, the moon hinting at the spots of color on her cheeks, as she asserted her independence and her willingness to do whatever she could for their child—without him, if need be.

He supposed someone else would be taken aback, offended.

He wasn't. He had been there too. Surviving on his own, doing what he had to do—knowing if he fell, no one would be there to pick him up—it was a lonely life, and not one she'd live if he could help it.

Her words flowed into him a little, into empty spaces he didn't know he had. Cassandra wasn't a comfortable woman, but he knew then that she was worth loving.

He measured his next words carefully. “I want to be able to leave and know you and the kid have everything I can give you. What kind of man would I be if I didn't take care of you both?”

She pursed her lips and let out an exasperated sigh. “No. I mean if you do not wish to be married—or if you have someone at home...”

He chuckled, but without much humor. “Don’t really have a home anymore. I’ve been chasing the army for fifteen years, and I have no family left. I did have a sweetheart once, but she married someone else while I was away.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. Things happened, and maybe some of them shouldn’t have. But it’s over. All you can do is try to make things better.”

Cassandra nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. “I can understand that.”

“You probably do,” he said, her history still fresh in his mind.

She unclasped her hands and swung her legs over the side of the wall, facing him. “I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you about…about the child. We did not part on the best of terms, and I did not think you...well, I thought you would not want to be involved.”

“You thought wrong,” he said, grasping her hand from where it lay on her lap, rubbing his thumb gently, reassuringly, over her knuckles.

“I—“ she began, the dark shade of recrimination tinging her voice again,“I—this…situation is my fault. I should not have—“

He interrupted. “You need to stop right there. I might not be the smartest man in the world, but I’m pretty sure the situation took both of us.”

He grinned up at her and waggled his eyebrows, and got the desired results. She pushed him away by his shoulder, and blushed to the roots of her hair.

“You know that is not what I meant!” she exclaimed.

He laughed.

“You are a horrible, horrible man,” she said, but there was no heat in it.

“’Horrible man’ is fine for now, darlin’,” he said softly, moving to stand closer, and wrapping his arm around her waist. When she didn’t pull away, he added his other arm. “But if we get married, maybe you could just call me ‘husband’ instead of ‘horrible man’.” He heard her snort, and choke back a laugh.

“We shall see about that,” she proclaimed.

He felt lighter now that he had gotten her to joke with him. No more tears. It wasn’t what either of them would have wanted three months ago, but they’d make it work. He’d make it work.

It struck him again, how…right, somehow, that despite her height, she still fit snugly in his arms. The faint but heady scent of lilacs washed over him—he had almost forgotten. She smelled like lilacs then, too, when they shared that too-small bed, after…well, after.

He cleared his throat, and continued lightly, “Or…I dunno…maybe you could call me ‘honey’. That might be nice. ‘Sweetheart’ wouldn’t be too bad. Or ‘pumpkin’”.

Cassandra wrinkled her nose dramatically, and draped one of her arms across his shoulder. “Isn’t a pumpkin some kind of squash? I’m not calling you a squash. I don’t even _like_ squash.”

“So…” he murmured, “does that mean you like me?” He looked into her eyes, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile.

“I—“ she sputtered, knowing she had been outmaneuvered. She pursed her lips and looked at him critically, but the sparkle was back in her eyes. He felt warm again. “I suppose you are not terrible,” she allowed.

“Not terrible, huh?” He chuckled. “Best just stick with calling me Varric, then. Or…” he paused, half awe-struck and half-terrified at the thought, “maybe ‘dad’,” he concluded softly.

“ _Oh_.” Her fingers tightened uncomfortably on his shoulder. “Yes.”

He reluctantly took his hands off her waist and stepped back. “What’s your last name? You never told me.”

She blinked at the sudden change in subject. “Pentaghast. It’s Pentaghast.”

He took both of her hands in his, and held them gently. “I know we haven’t known each other for too long, and…and having a kid is…well, it’s a surprise, isn’t it?”

He paused as his thoughts went to the night they had met. “I do remember the first time I saw you. I thought you were one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen.”

“Liar,” she murmured.

He gripped her hands more tightly. “No. In fact, the night the lieutenant told me he wanted to dance with the most beautiful woman in the room, I wanted to tell him he couldn’t, because I thought he meant you.”

She looked at him, an eyebrow raised, disbelieving, but her lips betrayed her, unconsciously parting into a hopeful “o”.

Was she convinced she was ugly just because she wasn’t like her friend?

Women like Leliana were beautiful in the same way a tropical flower was beautiful. They were colorful, exotic, and intoxicating. Your eyes were happy just to look at them.

Cassandra, though…she was like the Texas plains, just when the sun came up, and you could see for miles in every direction. The land stretched, and the sky stretched, both forever, and they were bathed in so many different hues of pinks and oranges that you couldn’t name them all. When you would sit there, quietly, your heart would burst from the feeling, even if it was too big to put real words on it. That was Cassandra’s beauty.

He wished he could tell her that in a way that made sense.

“You are beautiful,” he finally said. “And don’t you ever think differently. But as beautiful as you are on the outside, you're even more beautiful on the inside.”

He brought one of her hands up, and bent his head to press his lips chastely against it. It was slender, the bones fine, but strong too, and the skin a little rough. It was an honest hand, and it was _her_.

“I know you probably—you do—deserve better than me. I can't promise much, but I’ll try—I'll always try—to be a good husband and a good father to our…to our family, as best as I can. To always take care of you.” He drew in a deep breath. “Cassandra Pentaghast, will you marry me?”

There was a long pause as she looked down on him, a long pause in which his heart hammered wildly, butterflies danced in his stomach, and his lungs felt like they couldn't get enough air. He had just started to think he had misjudged horribly, and she was going to laugh at the presumption of a short, red-headed Texas nobody from nowhere-in-particular who had the temerity to ask her—

“Yes,” she finally said. “I will.”

He was so relieved, he laughed. He put his hands around her hips again, swung her down from that absurd little wall, and used his arms to urge her down into a kiss.

After a second of stiffness, of hesitation, she parted her lips and kissed him back.


	9. Chapter 9

_She was a girl again._

_Yes, very much a girl, although it was not so long ago._

_She was past the first blush of youth, and she had a weariness in her eyes, a jut to her chin, and a cynical turn to her lips. No hint of shyness or innocence still clung to the hard lines of her body, the lines that smoothed into perfect curves that concealed as much as they revealed._

_But, for all that, she was still a girl. She played games—at the highest of stakes—but they were always just games; ones she invariably won, for she had formidable talents at her disposal. Beauty, wit, courage, and daring were a potent cocktail when combined in one individual, and those assets were all hers in abundance. But most importantly, she had an ability to see others as they did not wish to be seen: their secret hopes, their petty thoughts, their darkest desires. She saw all, and covered it with a sparkling laugh and a guileless smile._

_They never saw the dagger sliding into their ribs until it was too late._

_Yet, for all of that, and it was much, she was still a girl. She had never known betrayal, never known true suffering of the body and soul, never cried out, alone and in the dark, "God, God, why have you forsaken me?"_

_But these things, and many more, would come._

_"If you don't want to talk, little Nightingale, we have ways of making you sing."_

***

Friday, May 19th, 1944, dawned clear and cold.

Leliana arose early, for she had much to do. It was Cassandra's wedding day, and though it wasn't entirely up to her to make everything perfect, no one would be able to fault her for lack of trying.

She washed up, and then put on her clothes--her blue suit that brought out the sparkle in her eyes, the straw hat with the floppy brim she had dressed up with a new ribbon, her lovely new stockings that the lieutenant had given her, and her old heels. (She would have loved new shoes, but with the rationing, it was quite, quite impossible, even for her.)

Then she made up her face--this took the longest, for she had to blend up the different colors. She hid this, emphasized that, shading and mixing, to recreate the porcelain complexion and beauty of her youth. This done, she drew up her hair in a low chignon, then with a critical eye, pulled some of her hair onto her forehead, and waved it, swooping it over her left brow.

Finally, she stepped back and admired the results in her mirror. For a woman of thirty-seven, she looked at least ten years younger.

And whatever else a day might hold, she had made a promise to herself to never greet it with anything but her best. And this day, in particular, deserved nothing less.

She smiled, then turned to gather the things she needed to bring over to Cassandra's. She picked up the dress, which gleamed white, and had just been pressed the night before. With a sudden thought, she gathered up all of her make-up and put it in a bag (it wouldn't hurt, knowing Cassandra), and finally, her greatest surprise, enclosed in a nondescript cardboard box: a real wedding cake with fruit and icing. She had had to beg, borrow, and steal the ingredients for it, but now, seeing the finished product, it was more than worth it. (Although, to be fair, she had not had to beg too much; most of the nurses were willing to help where they could once they had been told of Cassandra's wedding, and Lieutenant Hawke, with a touch of boyish mischief, had done the stealing (or liberating, as he had called it) from the kitchens on the base.)

Finally, she had everything she needed, and stepped out, shutting the door firmly behind her. She took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air, turned her face slightly to the sun, and smiled. It was a beautiful day, a day to celebrate friends, to celebrate beginnings, to celebrate life itself, both new and old.

_Please, Lord, help my friend Cassandra--and Varric--today. This is unexpected for them, but help them see the good in this day and in each other. Help them be happy._

She took a deep breath.

 _Amen_.

***

"You're looking pretty relaxed for a man about to get leg-shackled," Hawke said, leaning back in his office chair, his feet up on the corner of his desk. "I thought I'd have to calm you down. Maybe get Bull to drag you to the altar."

Varric was sitting across from him, feet up on the opposite end of the desk. He smirked and flicked a piece of ash off his cigarette. "And that's based on what, sir? Your vast experience in getting married?"

"A lot of my friends got married before they shipped off," Hawke defended himself. "They all looked like hell."

"Musta been they were gettin' married to the wrong woman," Varric drawled, taking a drag on his cigarette before blowing the smoke out slowly, taking his time, enjoying the moment. "Cassandra is a heckuva catch. She's smarter than me, classier than me, better-looking than me--"

"--much better--" Hawke interjected.

Varric gave Hawke a long, dirty look and then continued, "Like I was saying, why would I be worried, getting married to a woman like that?"

"I'd be worried she'd come to her senses," Hawke intoned solemnly, suppressing his smile.

Varric let out an appreciative noise at the insult. "Guess I left myself open for that one. " He leaned forward and put his cigarette out in the ammo can serving as Hawke's ashtray. Then he grinned. "Let's hope she doesn't."

They both sat back in companionable silence, Varric stretching and putting his arms behind his head, the very picture of a man with no cares in the world. Hawke shook his head. He knew if their roles were reversed, he'd have been breathing out of a paper bag by now. Not that he never wanted to get married. In fact, Leliana--but it just seemed like such a huge step. You'd be closing a door forever, and opening an entirely new one. You _thought_ it would work out for the best, but how could you know? How could anyone take it in stride that easily?

As Hawke watched, Varric took his cigarettes out again. He tapped the pack against his fingers before offering it across the desk. Hawke shook his head--he didn't mind a cigarette every now and again, but he certainly didn't smoke as often as Varric. He eyed the ammo can as Varric grabbed his matches. He had just cleaned the damn thing out this morning, and now it was almost halfway full again.

Hell, even Varric didn't smoke that much. Unless--

 _Of course_. Hawke valiantly fought to keep the smirk off his face.

"Well, it's a good thing you're not nervous, sergeant." Hawke threw the comment out there, hoping Varric would take the bait.

"Course I'm not," Varric agreed, talking around his Lucky Strike. He slid a match across the box, and held it to his cigarette until the flame took. He gave an appreciative puff, closing his eyes, and holding the smoke in his lungs a moment before he exhaled. Finally, he glanced at Hawke, a question in his eyes. "Anyway, why do you say that?"

 _Hook, line, and sinker_.

Hawke made a show of looking at the ashtray, at his sergeant, then slowly back to the ashtray again.

He put a serious, concerned look on his face. "Well, if this is you being calm, I'd hate to see what you would be like if you were actually nervous. There probably wouldn't be any more cigarettes left on the base. Maybe in the Army."

Hawke couldn't help the laugh that crept into his voice halfway through his little speech, and now his smile was so wide his cheeks hurt.

"Sir?" Varric said politely, sitting up to tap his ash in the ammo can.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

Hawke laughed in earnest, long and loud, until his eyes watered, ignoring the death-glares Varric shot his way. In all fairness, he would have stopped sooner, but every time he almost had it under control, he would take another look at his sergeant's aggrieved face and start up again.

Finally, Hawke regained his breath. "I'm sorry," he said, somewhere between a snort and a chuckle. "Really, I am." He wiped a tear from his eye. "Truly."

"No problem," Varric retorted, sourly. "Just get it out of your system. Go on. Get a good laugh. Just know," and Varric pointed his finger at him, "when you get married, I'll have no sympathy. None."

Hawke pretended to ponder for a bit. "Seems fair," he finally agreed. "I guess I would deserve it. Deal."

He placed his outstretched hand across his desk, and Varric shook it solemnly.

"Payback's gonna be hell, sir."

"I wouldn't expect anything less than your best, Tethras."

They both sat back again, the quiet broken only by a few muffled noises from outside--some barked orders, the roar of a few jeeps going by, and the dull echo of booted feet slapping across concrete.

Hawke surreptitiously examined his sergeant. Now that he knew what to look for, his friend was trying a little _too_ hard for there not to be something up. Varric appeared relaxed, but everything was a little too practiced, overdone, from the way he dangled his cigarette precariously between his fingers to the way he was leaning a little too far back in his chair.

Hawke cleared his throat as he debated whether to say anything. Finally, he settled on a casual sounding, "Seriously--you doing ok? I mean, I know this is kind of quick and all."

He threw it out there, in case his companion felt like unburdening himself. Hawke had wondered--not that it was any of his business--at his sergeant's sudden engagement to Cassandra. She seemed decent enough, but Varric hadn't seemed particularly smitten with her. To the contrary.

"Yeah," Varric said, putting a little too much emphasis on the word, and looking up at the ceiling.

Hawke shrugged. If his sergeant didn't want to talk, that was fine; not everyone did. He just figured he would offer. Anyway, if Varric took him up on it, what would he even say? He hadn't had any steady girlfriends or much experience with women. Hell, he couldn't even tell Leliana how he felt about her. He had tried-- _I've never felt this way for anyone, the last few weeks have been some of the best of my life, do you think--would you wait for me?_ And each time, he had choked, and said nothing.

No, he probably wasn't a good person for Varric to talk to about whatever troubled him.

The minutes ticked quietly away, and he let his mind drift while Varric puffed on his cigarette.

"I dunno," Varric said after a while, leaning forward to grind his butt out. "Hadn't thought about getting married before. At least not in a long time. Figured if the army wanted me to have a wife, it would've issued me one, right?"

Hawke smiled at the old joke, and waited for Varric to continue, praying he would not be asked for any advice.

"So it's kind of hard to get used to the idea, I guess. But the more I think about it, well--it seems like it might be okay."

Hawke nodded helpfully and waited.

"It'd be nice, having a wife to come home to after all this is over," Varric mused. "Never had someone waiting for me. And Cassandra's a good woman. Real good." Varric paused and looked thoughtful. "Reckon a kid will be good, too. Always liked kids. It won't be so bad."

 _Well, that explained everything_.

"Sounds like you're a lucky man, sergeant," Hawke said. When Varric put it like that, he did sound pretty damn fortunate.

Varric nodded, and lit another cigarette. "Yeah," Varric said, surprise in his voice. "I guess I am. First time for everything."

Hawke gave a brief smile to his friend, and then sighed in relief. That went well.

"Say, thanks again for giving me the next two days," Varric said, blowing his smoke expansively toward the ceiling.

"No problem," he responded. To be honest, Hawke only wished he could give him a few more days with his bride. His CO hadn't given him the exact date yet, but with the way things were going, they'd be leaving for the coast soon. Next week, two weeks, at the outside. "Just happy I could. If anyone deserves it, you do."

"Well, when you put it _that_ way, sir, I guess I'm forced to agree with your superior judgement." Varric smirked at him.

Hawke rolled his eyes, then looked at his watch. "It's about time, sergeant."

Varric stubbed his cigarette out with suddenly clumsy fingers. "Already? Just seems a bit early, I guess." He looked pale under the freckles that scattered across his nose.

Hawke stood. "Yep, It's time," he reiterated.

"You got the ring?"

Hawke patted his pocket. "Right here."

"Great." Varric took a deep breath and stood. "Well, better get going. Don't want to keep people waiting."

He didn't move.

"After you, sergeant," Hawke reminded him gently.

"Right," Varric said, rousing himself, and making his way jerkily outside.

Hawke followed him. Varric had stopped just outside the door, apparently in disbelief.

Hawke surreptitiously glanced at him, trying to get a read on his sergeant's reaction, but Varric's face remained stubbornly blank.

Hawke just hoped this would be a pleasant surprise.

Squaring his shoulders, and squinting against the glare from the sun, he marched five paces away from his acting platoon sergeant, who had entire platoon arrayed behind him, as planned, all in their dress uniforms, all at attention. He exchanged salutes with the senior man.

"Report," he barked.

"Alpha company, third platoon, all present!"

Salutes were exchanged again before Hawke addressed the men.

"On my command, you will fall out. Third platoon will escort Sergeant Tethras to his wedding, and then afterwards, we'll all celebrate by having a _damn_ good time."

There was a muffled cheer, quickly restrained.

"FALL OUT!"

The men gathered around Varric, slapping his back and shaking his hand, to the general tenor of "Congratulations!" and "Wouldn't miss it!"

Finally, the platoon was ready to go, and Hawke made his way to Varric, falling into step beside him.

"Didn't the kids have liberty today?" Varric asked, voice a little thick, staring at the ground.

"Yeah," Hawke said. "They just all wanted to come, so I figured we'd make it official and everything."

"Thanks, sir. This means--well, it means a lot."

Hawke smiled. The platoon had come together over the weeks and months, and he figured it was the closest thing to family Varric had right now. Closest all of them had.

Damn, he was getting sentimental.

To break the mood, he leaned over and elbowed his sergeant. He cupped a hand theatrically over his mouth, and said, in a mock-whisper, "They weren't sure they wanted to come until I told them there'd be nurses and cake, so don't get all emotional on me."

"Emotional? Me?" Varric scoffed. "All I'm thinking about is how far you've come with your drill since the first time you met the platoon and fell down on your face. Remember that?" Varric grinned. "Still have a lot to learn, though, sir," he said contemplatively, scratching his chin. "Dismissed would've been the better command there, not fall out. And--"

"Shut up, Tethras," Hawke grouched, annoyed at the reminder and the correction--but more glad about how damn lucky he was, that he could be here today, celebrating with his best friend and his platoon.

"Aye aye, sir," Varric said, a smile in his voice.  



	10. Chapter 10

" _Cassandra-would-you-please-stop-moving_." The words came out in a rush, and behind gritted teeth, for it was not the first--or even the fourth--time Leliana had had to say them this morning.

She winced a little at Leliana's tone, and then with the air of someone who knows they are guilty, "I'm sorry."

Cassandra was sitting in a chair behind what she used as her dressing table, although that name was probably too generous. It was just a mirror behind a low, small desk, tucked away in the corner of her bedroom.

When she got no reply, Cassandra opened her eyes and looked up at her friend. Leliana's red eyebrows were knit together, and her lips pursed, making deep lines on her otherwise flawless face. The make-up brush was held stiffly in her hand as if it were a spear she was about to launch at a particularly recalcitrant foe.

Cassandra sighed. Leliana's irritation was somewhat justified, as she hadn't stopped moving since Leliana had asked her to be still. "I'm sorry," she repeated again. "I know you are trying to help-- _have_ helped, so much--and I am being difficult." And then, in an awkward confession, for she hated to admit weakness of any sort, "I suppose I am just..." her fingers fluttered in the air, searching for the correct word that might explain the state of near-panic that threatened to overwhelm her, "just a little nervous," she concluded.

Leliana let out a puff of breath in acknowledgement. "Of course you are," she said more softly, reaching out to give Cassandra a brief hug around her shoulders. "I'm sorry for being sharp with you. Forgive me?" Then a belated, "Please?"

Cassandra snorted. "There is nothing to forgive. I would, no doubt, try the patience of a saint."

Leliana's lips turned up. "That you would."

"You did not have to agree!" Cassandra retorted, her voice rising in indignation.

Leliana did not reply, but the hint of laughter was still in her voice when she picked up her brush again and said, "Now close your eyes again and do not move."

Cassandra nodded, and tried to do as she was bid.

"Cassandra, it does not help if you are still, but your face is twisted up into a grimace. Relax."

 _Relax_ , Leliana said. As if she hadn't thought of that.

But no matter her wishes, her mind had kept returning to the wedding that would take place in a few short hours.

She still had no idea how she had gotten here, how unbelievable today was. If someone had suggested she would be getting married, and with child--and not in that order--four short months ago, she would have either laughed at their imagination or slapped them in the face for the insult. Perhaps both.

How, then?

Why had she said yes to Varric that night? All they had done is exchange some words in the pub. True, they had not just been any words. His voice had flowed out like warm honey, washing over her, from the drawled 'darlin' to his outrageous suggestion that he stand on his chair. His green-brown eyes had sparkled as he had said it, glinting with mischief and humor, his lips curling in a poorly suppressed half-grin. She had been tempted to take him up on his offer, but he would have done it, and then what kind of spectacle would that have made?

Some little part of her, though--the tiny little piece that remained of the outrageous, impulsive girl she had been--had wanted to insist, to laugh with him as everyone stared.

But his eyes, his wit, his smile, his sense of mischief...none of those served to explain what led her to this day.

True, she was not experienced in the art of flirtation, but even so, she had met other men, men who were every bit as handsome, charming, and quick-witted as Varric. None of them, though--not even Galyan--had ever tempted her to lose her head so completely.

Was it perhaps the slight frission of attraction she had felt with Varric, the sort of tension that begged for a re-affirmation of joy, of life, of normalcy? Were they just two souls who drifted together and seized an opportunity to be less alone? Was that all there was to it?

But no--regardless of how she felt, that was not how she acted. She just didn't _trust_ like that, would never put herself in a situation in which she was so vulnerable, where the consequences of her behavior could be so life-shattering. Not with anyone, and certainly not with a stranger.

But even though she didn't do things like that, there was no denying that she had, on that fateful night, made an exception. And even now, the elusive question of _why_ still lingered, and try as she might, she found it unanswerable.

Ever since she had been an adult, and left her uncle's house with a mixture of resolve and relief, she had done as she wished, determined to be beholden to no one. She wanted, above all, to have her own life, and certainly not be subject to the sad troupe of suitors her uncle had paraded before her.

Nursing had given her the independence she craved, to throw off whatever shackles her uncle and society had tried to impose on her. And she had been happy. The work was fulfilling, challenging, respected.

But most importantly, she was free to be herself, and no longer subject to the whims of those who had tried to order her life to their desires, instead of her own.

It was all she thought she had wanted.

Galyan had been a surprise. He was the kind of man she thought she would never meet: one who respected her, who valued her intelligence and independence. Above all, he was a good man--kind, loving, and selfless, with an openness and appreciation of everything life had to offer. They had balanced each other and fit together in a way Cassandra hadn't thought possible. And then, in '39, though his job would make him exempt from conscription, he was one of the first to volunteer for the RAF, much to Casandra's chagrin--and admiration.

Ever since they had met, it had always been Galyan--just Galyan--only Galyan.

They had never married, true, but it hadn't seemed urgent. She had never wanted to stay at home, to have children. But if they married, she would be expected to do those things, would be forced to leave her job, and so with unspoken agreement, they had never set a date.

Perhaps later...but it had just always seemed like the wrong time. He was in training, or flying a mission, or on standby in case the German planes roared overhead and the bombs whistled down their devastation below. And she was working round-the-clock, eating and even sleeping in the hospital, all the beds full, patients overflowing onto mattresses and cots stretched on the floor, in every available corner.

They could have done it, then. The rules had been changed with the nursing shortage, and married women no longer had to leave. And she could hardly be expected to stay home anyway, not with all the good she was doing at the hospital, not with the urgent need for experienced nurses.

But they hadn't gotten married. It had always seemed enough, and more than enough, that they loved each other.

And that brought her to today, to the reality that instead of Galyan, she would be marrying Varric, a man who was a stranger to her. A man she could respect, but did not love.

And the _child_! When it was just the nausea, even though she knew, some part of her was able to ignore it. It was real, but not tangible; something she could appreciate intellectually but not something she felt. But recently, her clothes had begun to pull and stretch across her bust and waist--just slightly, the kind of thing virtually unnoticeable to others, but noticeable enough to her for what it was and what it portended. She would be giving up her career, not today or tomorrow, but soon enough. Whether she told the matron, or her body saw fit to reveal her secrets for her, she would be asked to leave. The rules had been relaxed, but not to that extent. There were no pregnant nurses.

And she would not even be able to stay here, if and when Varric returned, in this nondescript little town. It was the same as any other hundred such towns, dotted across the English countryside, but hers for all that. Years ago, when she had come here, she felt so very alone and unmoored in her peripatetic existence. But now she had friends, colleagues, and memories that anchored her here. What might seem like an adventure to a young woman, moving across the ocean to a new country, filled her with nothing but dread.

And her home, her tiny little home, purchased on her income, with its shabby furniture, with its chipped plates, with her books (her one extravagant indulgence), with her tiny little garden in the back (mostly dead, for the government's appeal to plant vegetables for victory was no match for her black thumb)--they would have to be left behind. She would only be able to bring a large trunk, and that was all. But a trunk was a physical thing, and could not hold what she wished to keep.

It was all so much, so very, very much. Her independence, her home, her career, her body. She had made a choice, and she had felt it was the right one, the only one. But now as the minutes ticked closer and closer to her wedding, she felt more and more helpless and angry. True, what happened between her and Varric was a terrible mistake, a sin, but must it be one that she must pay for with the rest of her life? Was that what God demanded, terrible and unforgiving in his justice?

"Leliana," she said suddenly, the question coming from a place she was unable to silence, "Is this--do you think I am I doing the right thing?" Her voice cracked at the end of her question, sounding far more shrill and urgent than she would have wished. Cassandra winced, and pressed her lips together, traitorous things, trying to bite back what she had said.

Leliana stilled for a moment, and Cassandra thought she might say something, but almost as soon as the interruption occurred, her friend returned silently to her previous activity as if she had never left it, still applying, still smoothing, still blending. It was as if Cassandra had never spoken at all.

Perhaps she had determined to ignore the question to save Cassandra her embarrassment. And that was no doubt for the best.

"I am sorry," Cassandra said stiffly after she recovered her composure. "This...situation is my cross to bear, and mine alone. I should not have asked such a thing."

She expected Leliana to continue her work as she had, but the brush stilled again, this time for good. Cassandra finally opened her eyes and looked at her friend. Leliana was staring down at her hands, smearing an errant spot of beige-brown color between her fingers.

"I was thinking on what to say, not ignoring you." Her voice sounded heavy. "I take it that you are not asking for reassurance, but are having second thoughts?"

Leliana finally looked down at her, her face sad and gentle.

Cassandra trusted herself with a nod.

"I am not sure I am the best person to ask. Trust me, if I knew what the right thing was, then I doubt you and I would ever have met each other." Leliana looked at her with a rueful smile and sat down, perching on the edge of the desk. "What I can say is that I do not think you are making a bad decision. If I felt that way, I would have said something sooner, not waited until today."

Cassandra completed the implied statement. "But you don't think I am making a good decision, either."

Leliana's head gave a decisive shake. "Do not put words in my mouth, Cassandra."

"I am sorry," Cassandra said again. "I should not have said anything to begin with. It was...an error in judgement." She drew in a deep, steadying breath, willing away the slight pricking behind her eyes. What was she expecting Leliana to say? Yes? No? Cassandra could not put that burden on someone else's lap. "It is hardly a fair question to have asked. What's done is done, and now I must live with the consequences. That is all there is to it."

She closed her eyes once more, and waved her hand in what she hoped was a dismissive manner. "Please continue. I am sorry for interrupting you once again."

"Cassandra. Look at me." Leliana's voice had a slight edge to it.

Cassandra blinked, and sat upright, trying to read her friend's face, but found nothing in it other than compassion. Leliana leaned forward and reached out to grasp Cassandra's hands from where they sat rigid in her lap.

"How do I say this..." Leliana's voice trailed off. "You had told me, when we discussed it, that you wished to keep your child. Or rather," Leliana amended, seeing the look on Cassandra's face, "you said you could not live with yourself if you made another choice. And after you spoke with Varric, you told me that both of you agreed to get married. Those are not _bad_ decisions in the circumstances."

"In the circumstances," Cassandra echoed, with a sardonic twist to her lips.

"Self-pity is hardly helpful at the moment, Cassandra," Leliana said pointedly.

Cassandra's mouth dropped slightly open, and she was shocked into silence. Was that truly how she appeared? A girl throwing a tantrum when things didn't go her way? Hot shame crept over her cheeks.

Leliana sighed, and squeezed Cassandra's hands gently, before reaching up to massage her forehead. "That was not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?" Cassandra asked sharply, still stung by her friend's words.

"Cassandra..." Leliana paused, and then looked into the distance, picking her words carefully. "From the time I first met you, I respected you. First, it was for your competence, the way you took your duties seriously, the way you threw yourself into every task as if it were your only one. Then, as I grew to knew you, I respected you because you were a good person. Not nice--but good."

"I am not sure that is a compliment," Cassandra said.

"It is. It is _easy_ to be nice. Just smile, and say pretty things, and everyone will think so. But too many people confuse nice with good. You are _good_ , Cassandra. When you stood up to the Matron, the other nurses for me, why did you do it?"

Cassandra shifted in her chair uncomfortably. "It was nothing. They were wrong to say what they did, and I corrected them. That was all."

"Cassandra, not one woman in a hundred would do that. Not for a stranger, not against her friends or her co-workers. And most certainly, not against the Matron."

"They were wrong," Cassandra repeated stubbornly.

"Yes, they were, but most people wouldn't care enough to say anything."

Cassandra made a noise of disagreement.

Leliana smiled. "At any rate, I am not getting into an argument with you. But you care, Cassandra. About people, about doing the right thing. You give of yourself, even when you insist you do not. If you allow yourself, you will make a good wife and a good mother. Varric, I know less about, but it stands to his credit that he did the right thing. Lieutenant Hawke certainly thinks highly of him. And," Leliana gave her a teasing smile, "whenever you are in the room, he looks at you like you are the only woman there."

Cassandra snorted, even as her heart, independently of her wishes and feelings, thumped hopefully in her chest.

"He does, you know." Leliana's eyes sparkled at her. "He obviously adores you. Successful marriages have been made on far less than you two have.

"However," and Leliana's tone changed to something more serious, more urgent, "if you think, if you believe you must bear all of this for the sake of it being your...your _punishment_..." Leliana shook her head and squeezed Cassandra's hands tightly, almost painfully, and Cassandra bit back a wince. "All of this, all the preparations, the dress, the cake, the guests...they are meant to celebrate you and Varric and your new lives together. They should not serve as a reminder to you of something you find...a burden. And your _child_. You cannot--" Leliana drew in her breath, shook her head again. "Children are not something to be borne as a _consequence_ , Cassandra. Marrying Varric, having your child...they are not your holy penance for your sins."

Cassandra wrested her hands away from Leliana's. "I never said that they were."

"Can you say otherwise, truthfully?"

She looked coldly at Leliana, wounded and aching and angry, and opened her mouth to speak, only to find she did not know what to say.

Leliana's next words came out, regretful and sorry. "I did not know you still felt this...conflict in your heart. I should have spoken to you sooner, not just...assumed." Leliana shook her head again. "I have not been a very good friend."

"You are--" Cassandra started.

Leliana spoke over her. "But you know, it is not too late--even now--to change your mind. It will be awkward and unpleasant, yes. But dealing with that will be a small thing, and far better than living the rest of your life trapped and unhappy with a man and a child you cannot love. We can still find a doctor, if you wish it. Or if you feel that you would rather go away, then it is not too late to find somewhere for you to do that. But after today...you know I am your friend, you know I will always help you. But tomorrow, you will not have the same choices you do today."

Leliana leaned back, looking intently at Cassandra, waiting for her to speak.

Cassandra bit her lip. "There are no good choices, Leliana. I have already thought of everything. I chose this--but only because I did not think I could go through with the other alternatives. I still do not. But this choice--" she broke off. "It asks too much. All I have worked for, all I thought I wanted from life."

"No matter how you decide, it will bring you, and others, pain and regret. There is no getting around that. And I am sorry, so very sorry for that. It is a terrible thing to know that no matter what you choose, you will hurt someone."

"So then--how do I do the right thing? How do I _know_?" Cassandra asked, the anguish she felt leeching into her voice.

Leliana stood up, and came around behind her.  She put her hands on Cassandra's shoulders. "Look in the mirror." She gave Cassandra a brief smile. "Not at your make-up, of course, which for _some_ reason is only half-done, and I cannot imagine why," she said, the small joke breaking the intensity of the conversation for a moment.

Cassandra gave her a crooked half-smile back in acknowledgement.

"But look," she said, serious again. "This is the face that will stare back at you in the mirror, every day, for as long as you live. What face do you want to see? The responsible, proud, satisfied face of a hospital matron? For you could be one, Cassandra, if you choose. Or perhaps you want to see a woman with a child on her hip, who finds joy in her home and her family? But...I do not want you to see the face of a bitter woman, angry and resentful that God and fate took everything away from her and gave her nothing in return."

Cassandra stared at the mirror, and said, behind numb lips, "Neither do I."

"Do you know one of the things I admire most about you, Cassandra?" Leliana asked, seemingly changing the subject.

Cassandra shook her head.

"Most of us wear our masks, terrified to take them off because of what we might see. But you? Your face looks back at you every day, and you are not afraid." Leliana leaned forward, touching the mirror, distorting her reflection. "Do you know how rare that is?" she asked, a certain wistfulness in her voice.

It was not a question that called for an answer, and eventually Leliana sighed and stepped back. "Make the choice that will lead you to the face you want to see. You asked if I thought you were doing the right thing, but I cannot answer. No one can. It is not about the choice, it is about how you live afterwards. But whatever you do--Cassandra, you are a woman who can achieve so much, a woman who can love with her whole heart. You will have to live with regret, no matter what, but do not throw yourself away in the process. Promise me."

Cassandra had refused to consider any other option since she had said yes to Varric. There had been no point. She had made her decision, and she would have to live with it. So she allowed herself to go on, feeling hemmed in, trapped, each little detail of her wedding a painful reminder of her helplessness.  
  
She allowed herself to consider the alternatives, as she hadn't since that first day she spoke to Leliana. She could go to a doctor, and there would be a moment of unpleasantness and pain, some regret, but that was all. And she could go back to being herself afterward.

Or could she?

Try as she might to convince herself otherwise, the same stumbling block remained. Her child was not nothing. She tried to press past the procedure, to see her life again, the same as before. But though her life was the same, she was not. There was an empty void there, not left by the child, but by the part of herself she would have to give up to do it, the part of herself that saw right and wrong as two paths unseparated by gray, the part that saw the right thing as an imperative to action and not a choice to make.

Giving her child up, though--that could be right. That could be for the best. He or she would be whisked away before she could see them, never to know her. Even to think about that moment was painful, almost unbearable, and she knew that feeling for the truth even as she knew it made little sense. But she could do it for her child. It would be a grief and sorrow she would carry around her whole life, a heavy weight, but one she could endure. Instead of her, the baby would grow up with parents who loved each other, who desperately wanted to open their hearts to a child. Far, far better those sorts of parents than a child born to someone in her situation, to a mother who felt such uncertainty and doubt and dread.

But...perhaps her child would be given to parents like hers, loving enough in their way, and parents who cared for their children--but not quite as much as they cared for themselves. Or perhaps people like her uncle, people who had definite ideas on how a child should act, behave, and think, the sort of parents who would not appreciate a tomboy for a daughter, or a dreamy, sensitive artist for a son. Perhaps they would tell her son or daughter that they were a disappointment, an embarrassment, and wonder why they couldn't just be _normal_ , like other children.

She still remembered the old hurts like they were yesterday, pain still radiating from the scabbed-over wounds.

No, she could not give her child over to strangers.

The path that she had chosen wasn't one she was being dragged down, helplessly and unwillingly. It was simply the only choice she could make and still be _her_.

But if that was, and would remain, her decision, then Leliana was correct. How it turned out was largely her choice as well.

Cassandra finally looked up at her friend, twisting her lips into a wry smile. "Thank you for the lecture," she said. "I think I needed it."

"So...." Leliana trailed off, and took a deep breath. "What are we doing today? Shall I continue annoying you--I mean, helping you get ready for the wedding?"

Cassandra appreciated the attempt at humor for what it was, and rolled her eyes.

"Or..." Leliana said, " should we 'phone ahead and let them know the wedding is off? Maybe go for a walk to clear our heads and decide what to do next?"

Leliana cocked her head, waiting for Cassandra to speak.

"You may continue with the torture," Cassandra said matter-of-factly. "But..." Cassandra cleared her throat and tried to dissipate the heavy emotion in the room, "only because I know the work you put into the cake. It would be a shame not to enjoy it."

"It would be," Leliana agreed solemnly. "I am glad you have kept sight of the most important thing at stake here today."

"Someone had to," Cassandra grandly replied.

They both smiled at each other before Leliana bent to her work once more.

Then, after a few minutes, she whispered a soft answer to Leliana's question. "I won't lose myself. I promise."

***

So, after Leliana had done her face and pronounced it perfect, Cassandra braided and pinned her hair in the simple coronet she had worn for years. Then she slipped into a borrowed white gown, beautiful, though twenty years out of style, and admired her reflection as Leliana buttoned up the tiny clasps at the back of the dress. Finally, after she had put on her shoes, Leliana kissed her cheek and told her, softly, "It's time, Cassandra."

Standing up, she took one last glance around her room. Her eyes caught on the picture on her bureau, the picture that had stood in her bedroom since it had been framed. She picked it up slowly.

"Give me a minute, Leliana?"

Her friend nodded, and gave her a sad, sympathetic smile before slipping out of the room.

"I miss you," she said, to the handsome, beloved face that looked back at her. "I wish--" she paused. "Well, you know what I wish." Her eyes pricked as she remembered their dreams and plans. How had they been so sure in a world so filled with such uncertainty?

"Maybe, somehow, we knew," she whispered, answering her own question. "That was our future together. All those long talks, deep in the night, holding each other as we imagined what would be. And if that was all we could have, I'm grateful for every minute of it. Every minute." His face blurred underneath her hands.

"I love you. I always will. And you'll always be _here_ ," she pressed a hand to her chest, "with me. Always." Sobs threatened to climb their way from her throat, and she tensed her fingers around the picture frame, willing them away. She had done her crying. Today was not the day to lose herself in the past again.

"I...I have to go on," she said after she found her voice. "I hope you can understand. It's just...it's time." She swallowed convulsively, and wiped off the few tears that had fallen on the glass, tracing his face.

"Good-bye, Galyan," she whispered, and gently put his picture away in the bottom of her drawer. She closed her eyes, and allowed herself one more minute, one more time to feel his arms around her, his lips pressing against hers.

Then she slowly opened her eyes and straightened up, and walked out of her room without looking back.

Cassandra closed the door behind her and took a deep breath. Even though she would give almost anything to change all that had happened, she couldn't. Her only choice was to make the best of where she was now.

She lifted a trembling hand and pressed it gently against the slight curve of her abdomen. _I do not know the first thing about children or being a mother. Nothing at all. But I will try. And...I will love you with all my heart. I can promise you that, if nothing else._

A picture of Varric came to her mind, as she remembered the night she had told him of her pregnancy. His face had been white as he took in her news, but then he had given her a valiant smile, so clearly false, so clearly for her benefit. And he had said, his voice shaking, but honest, " _We'll figure this out, okay? You and me_."

In the safety of her soul, she answered him. _I would not want to do this on my own. But I will be there with you, and together we will make this work somehow. I promise._

Her own, silent vows professed, Cassandra nodded. It was time to go, to live, to shape this new chapter of her life into something good, despite how it began.

Leliana was waiting by the front door. "Ready?" she asked, as Cassandra drew even with her.

"Yes." Cassandra nodded and took a deep breath, her throat still a little raw.

Leliana gave her shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze before opening the door and gesturing. "After you, then."

Cassandra hesitated for a brief moment, then stepped out into the sun. As she waited for Leliana to join her, she glanced up, and saw the church in the distance. An unseasonably cold gust of air whipped 'round her skirt, its long fingers chilling her skin where it touched. She shivered as it took hold of her.

Then... _I promise_ , she reminded herself. Cassandra threaded her arm in Leliana's and bent her head to be heard over the wind. "We should hurry, or we'll be late."

Leliana nodded, and they both made haste to the church on the hill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never fail to be struck by just how much women were giving up to get married, and not that very long ago. Of course, one can argue now that there are still problems, but...not on the same order as they were back then. 
> 
> Of course, in practice, it could vary, depending on the situation and circumstances, but...still, so very much.
> 
> I imagine it would be something every independent woman would struggle with, regardless of how much she loved her husband. But...hopefully Cass found a way to make her peace with it, and I have no doubt she'll still do what she thinks is right and important, regardless of what society expects of her.


End file.
